


surrogate

by 17734



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dissociation, F/M, Planned Parenthood, Polyamorous Relationships, Pregnancy, asexual sociopath character, it opens up some buried feelings, the Lestranges ask Voldemort to be a surrogate father as their reward for Azkaban
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 80,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17734/pseuds/17734
Summary: She looks at him now and sees exactly what he has always desired to be. She is the cure to his self-cannibalizing vanity. The only mirrors that can satisfy him are her glassy, black eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know better than to write HP fanfic but Voldemort's mental narrative kept scrolling through my head.

Half dead but living, somehow still living, his three closest friends kneel before him.

  
He has always been meticulous in his work and he is meticulous in his relationships too. Favors must be returned with favors. Devotion must be repaid with trust. The give-and-take currency so intrinsic to Slytherin House threaded through his brain long ago and never left. Rending his soul asunder has distanced him irreparably from his emotions. Even dying and clawing his way back to life however has not blemished this principle.

  
Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange searched for him desperately after his fall, fought unflinchingly as their enemies surrounded them and chose prison rather than spite his name. They endured there, suffering fourteen years in the dementors' nest until he returned. Their pain is written clear across their faces, pooled in gaunt cheeks and skeletal limbs. Robes shrunken tight to fit their starved bodies still hang baggily from sharp shoulders. Nevertheless, they look to him now with joy, not a tint of resentment in their dark, adoring eyes.

  
So, he will reward them.

  
Voldemort leans back in the armchair, watching the firelight cast flickering shadows over his followers. Nagini coils loosely about his shoulders like a serpentine shawl, her tongue flitting out to taste the air. The three Lestranges wait silently, oddly. Not one of them attempts to begin the conversation even though they know exactly why they are here. It is unlike them. He tilts his head to one side.

  
“Beyond reproach,” he says quietly, the snapping fire augmenting the hiss of his voice. “That is the status you three have earned. When I was flung into the abyss, when I clung to my last shreds of life, you refused to abandon me. The pain I suffered is the same as your pain.” He nods quietly to himself. “You need never doubt your standing in our Family again. There is no mistake you could commit that I won‘t forgive. No matter what comes, you will lend yourselves fully to my cause. You have proven it. Tell me, my favorite friends, speak. What boon may I grant you to repay your selfless and unfailing devotion?”

  
Bellatrix’s dark eyes flit quickly up to his face but fall again. He watches her closely, seeing her lips close on a bitten-off word. She says nothing, hesitating, and it is completely unlike the Bella he knows. Surely she has already decided what she wants. Surely she dreamed it up years in advance. The brothers would know too but it is their habit to let Bella speak for them.

  
Instead, she stares tensely down at the floor.

  
Voldemort cannot read their minds, a fact that frustrates him in his idle moments. He taught them Occlumency long ago. Considering the amount of secrets he entrusts them with, mental defense is a necessity. He is not the only powerful Legilimens in the world. Dumbledore himself has quite the talent for stealing stray thoughts. The Lestranges however have always picked up his lessons prodigiously; their minds are utterly impenetrable.

  
All three of them Occlude in their _sleep_.

  
He knows because he has stood over them, carding fingers through their hair, spelling them unconscious and positioning them like dolls. He has drawn them close, cold and unfeeling, wondering to himself, _‘what is a family like…?’_

  
He could spend weeks trying to break into their minds and still reap no fruit. If he wants to know why they are so reluctant to make a request of him, he will have to rely on conjecture.

  
“Come now,” he coaxes gently, trying to remember how to make his voice seem warm, “speak your desires. There is nothing to fear.”

  
“My lord,” and to his surprise, it is Rodolphus who starts. “You honor us deeply. Any reward you deem fit will satisfy us all. Our request however, if you find it worthy, is of a personal nature.”

  
Bellatrix is still staring at the floor. Voldemort notices curiously that she seems to be holding her breath. Rodolphus continues.

  
“I married late in life and only because I met Bellatrix,” he says, his eyes misting slightly with recollection. “She wanted to fight. The fight wanted her. A husband who wished her to remain at home, birthing and tending the next generation of pureblood children would have been unsuitable.”

  
“I remember,” Voldemort nodded. “I was the one who suggested her to you. You did, after all, work so well together…”

  
Rescuing Bellatrix from the domestic lifestyle her parents expected her to follow was in his best interests. She is the most skillful duelist he has and she was even back then.

  
“The three of us could not be happier,” Rodolphus returns soberly. “Still…the initial dilemma of my family remains, even after all these years. My brother and I cannot sire magical children. Our blood…has grown too weak.”

  
“And I’ve told you, Rod,” says Voldemort, “that it cannot be cured.”

  
They have gone over this before. He narrows his eyes slightly. Azkaban has had its adverse effects but surely Rodolphus would not waste his time demanding the impossible.

  
“Yes, my lord,” Rodolphus agrees quickly and now he is faltering. Whatever momentum he mustered earlier seems to fizzle and fade away. He blinks, looking absent from his gaunt face. Then he glances at Bellatrix; she does not move. Emaciated as her body is, her knees must ache but she does not so much as twitch.

  
The firelight flickers in the shadowy room, hisses and pops from the embers punctuating the silence.

  
“We do not seek a cure, master,” Rabastan says then.

  
The brothers are close, even with Rodolphus being ten years younger. Rabastan went to school with Voldemort; they killed the Lestrange’s mad uncle together. It is one of the few childhood recollections Voldemort still recounts with fondness. Nevertheless, Rabastan’s role is a protective one. He picks up the conversation when Rodolphus cannot carry it.

  
“A cure is not necessary. We seek only a child,” he finishes, his voice barely a breath. “Yours, master.”

  
Distantly, in some faraway room that has rotted and fallen apart, Voldemort feels a jolt of surprise. This is the very last thing he has thought to expect. He assumed they would ask him for immortality; he has seriously considered granting it to them. After all, followers like this, whom he has put decades into training and who would never betray him, are pricelessly rare. If they had but one horcrux each, if he kept those horcruxes himself to protect and control, surely it would not undermine him. But _this…?_ An heir, a child?

  
Separated from himself, he can only sit in his chair and stare impassively down at them. His gaze falls on Bella again; she flinches. The courage necessary to make this appeal alone must be staggering; he understands now why the Lestranges falter, why they look terrified by their own words, why they can barely lift their eyes from the floor.

  
Why shouldn’t they fear? The request is insolence personified.

  
Voldemort closes his eyes, trying to decide if he is furious, perplexed or amused. He taps one sharp, white finger on the chair’s arm. He leans his head back. “You wish me to be…a surrogate?”

  
“…Yes, master,” says Rabastan haltingly. “The mother…the mother, of course, would be Bellatrix.”

  
“I see.” Voldemort is silent for a moment, turning these words over. “And how long ago, pray tell, did the three of you cook this up?”

  
Their petrified silence is an answer all of its own. He sighs.

  
It stands to figure that the pureblood elite of Wizarding Society would be chiefly concerned with blood. They must have been aiming for this all along, since even before Harry Potter, the Prophecy and Azkaban.

  
“Is that what I am to you then?” he inquires. It is difficult to remember how through the fog but he lowers his voice, molds his features into something wounded. The next words he speaks sound hurt. “Has that been your scheme since we first met? To acquire the Slytherin line? To join it with yours and possess it? Am I a tool to feed your ambitions?”

  
Horror crashes into the three Lestranges like a tangible wave. They blanch, cringing back away from his chair.

  
“No, master!” Bellatrix chokes, speaking for the first time. “Never!” Mortified tears are welling in her eyes, a flush on her hollow cheeks. Rodolphus has scrunched his eyes shut. Rabastan is desperately shaking his head.

  
In that single instant, Voldemort decides he is, in fact, fiercely and intensely amused.

  
Naturally, he milks the game for all that it is worth.

  
“I came to you in the name of friendship,” he marvels in a betrayed tone of voice. “I placed myself before you, sincerely and openly, to honor our shared toils. This is how you respond? Making a grab for my own flesh? Objectifying my very genetics like they are a prize to snatch in your greedy claws?”

  
In less than a minute, he has all three of them sobbing into the carpet. The Lestranges rasp out apologies, nearly incoherent with the force of their distress. Bellatrix has started to hyperventilate, nearly gagging on hysterical breaths. Her manic fits have gotten worse since Azkaban and anxiety undoes her just as thoroughly. She presses one spindly hand to her mouth, wild dark hair falling in her face. Her entire body trembles, rattling with each violent gasp. It is a riveting sight. Voldemort studies her at his leisure, then each brother in turn. None of them dare to look back at him. None of them see the sadistic fondness in the twist of his thin mouth.

  
He did not miss them. In his semi-existence, suspended between life and death, he completely forgot how entertaining they are. Now he wants to croon to them, drag them up by the hair and hold their faces in his hands. This is why they are his favorites, his absolute favorites. The world is infested with wretched, ignorant, tedious minds but these three are treasures.

  
“There, there, now,” he soothes the weeping Death Eaters. He stands silently, pulling Rod and Bastan up by the elbows and steering them over to nearby chairs. For Bella, he summons a Calming Draught and kneels beside her on the floor. He knows her condition and at this point, the potion is really the only thing that can help. He bats her hand away from her mouth, tipping her head back with a grip on her hair. He pours the potion down her throat, watching her eyes grow dark and glassy. He can see his twin reflections in them, flickering with the firelight. He is a black silhouette edged in flame.

  
When she sags, he scoops her body up in his arms and deposits her on a divan. She weighs less than a child. She weighs less than Nagini where the snake curls on his shoulders.

  
“Calm yourselves, my dear friends,” Voldemort tells them gently. It is easier now, pretending to be affectionate. They have reminded him how to do it. “I am so sorry that I misunderstood. You would never think of me in such a way. Not you, my most trusted and true.”

  
The Lestranges settle at his words, their panic ebbing. “Thank you, master,” says Rabastan brokenly, his voice rough with relief, “thank you.”

  
Rodolphus and Bellatrix manage to express similar sentiments though they are too shaken to offer more than a couple words. The husband and wife are clumsily dashing tears from their eyes.

  
Voldemort nods and turns to the fire, standing with his back to them. Nagini’s dry hide brushes against his cheek as she lifts her head.

  
“My friends,” he tells them, feeling their hungry stares behind them, “I will grant your request.” He waits, savoring their stunned intakes of breath, the way the air grows taut with suspense. “On three conditions, mind you.”

  
“ _Anything_ , master,” Bellatrix blurts, her tongue nearly tripping over the words. “Please.”

  
“Master, you are kind and benevolent,” Rodolphus babbles, “this means the world to us…”

  
“We’ll do whatever you wish, my lord,” says Rabastan.

  
“It needn’t be your doing,” Voldemort tells them, casting a dismissive hand through the air. “I’m sure our work will bring us to the right point, sooner or later. Nevertheless, a child is a vulnerability. A child is something enemies exploit to destroy morale. We must not give our enemies a way to strike at our hearts. That is why, until Dumbledore is dead, there can be no baby.”

  
“My lord, I shall rip his heart out myself-” Bella begins but he turns on her sharply.

  
“You will attack if and _only_ if I command it,” he hisses.

  
She shrinks. “Yes, my lord, of course. Forgive me.”

  
“The second condition,” Voldemort continues easily as though there had been no interruption, “is Bellatrix’s health. You have been out of Azkaban for scarcely a month. Pregnancy now might kill you; your body is too frail. Maternity aside, you are a critical element of my military strength. I cannot spare you for long. You will most likely have to fight during the first two trimesters. With this in mind, I must instruct you to devote yourself to recovery.” He turns back to the fire. “You must stop forgetting to eat, forgetting your potions…”

  
“I won’t forget, master,” she pledges fervently.

  
“Good girl,” he murmurs. He goes and seats himself again, raking his gaze once over Bella and the brothers. They look completely revived, eyes shining with near-euphoric happiness. The furniture they sit in is too big for their emaciated bodies. He expects the upholstery to swallow them whole until only splinters of them are showing. Still, the amount of emotion they are able to project dominates the room.

  
His sinister shadows and firelight are nothing to the Lestranges’ aura of joy. It is late at night but he would not be surprised if birds began rapturously singing. Rainbows and sunshine would not be entirely out of the question either.

  
“The last condition,” he tells them idly, grazing his knuckles against Nagini’s head, “concerns the child itself. Bellatrix, you are well versed in the Dark Arts. I assume you know the power a witch has during her pregnancy to shape the child’s fate...”

  
“Certainly,” Bella assures him avidly. He is not surprised by her answer; she is a Black and her family is the sort to know these old rituals.

  
“My blood is steeped with ambition,” Voldemort tells her, “but the thought of being pitted against my own kith is intolerable. A son, I fear, is far too likely to attempt to surpass me. Instead, bear me a daughter, Bella. Let her share the devotion you have always upheld for your family…” His voice grows even softer, “and in appearance, bid her to take after you.”

  
If the baby girl ends up looking like Riddle _too_ , he will have to rip off her face. He does not want that. He would rather like to be a good father, one who protects, provides for and teaches his child. He is not anything like that filthy, wretched muggle who left him to starve in a dilapidated orphanage during a depression, during an influx of refugees and the second World War. No, if anything, Voldemort thinks he ought to try and be the best father he can be.

  
His child will have the best mother and uncles he can think of. There are no people better suited than the Lestranges are. Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan are the closest things to perfect the Wizarding World can offer. Pureblooded, powerful, clever and wealthy- yes, they will certainly suffice. It is not a bad arrangement. Being immortal, he does not need an heir; if he is to father a child however, this is clearly the optimal way.

  
It could be an interesting experience.

  
“It will be as you say, master,” Bellatrix breathes, her voice a haunting whisper that lingers in his memory for years after.

 

o0O0o

 

It is only a year and a half later that Dumbledore very obligingly falls over and dies. Voldemort supposes he has Severus to thank but the entire situation seems whimsical. Sending his Death Eaters into Hogwarts accomplished little more than waylaying the other professors on staff. Draco Malfoy failed to redeem his family’s honor, lacking the guts to mutter a simple killing curse. Dumbledore was on death’s door long before Severus’s spell extinguished him; the potion’s master claims to have poisoned him discretely several hours previous. It is over and done with.

  
It is anticlimactic.

  
In regard to Draco, Voldemort is torn. The boy’s regrettable psyche can easily be blamed on Narcissa and Lucius’s unfettered pampering. With Bellatrix always spoiling Narcissa and Abraxas spoiling Lucius, it only stands to reason that they would make dreadful parents. Still, the damage is not irreparable. Mentoring from the Lestranges has already made the boy an excellent Occlumens and he is not half bad with charms either. Perhaps a bit of field work can salvage him, do away with that squeamish aversion to violence. He will give the boy a chance, for Bella’s sake if not for Draco’s.

  
Lucius, on the other hand, can rot in Azkaban.

  
In the meantime, the general mood among the Death Eaters is celebratory. They have infiltrated the Ministry. They have all but crushed the Order of the Phoenix. The great Albus Dumbledore is dead. Voldemort is still slightly irked about losing the prophecy but how important can it be? The boy, Harry Potter, is a laughable obstacle at best. He will kill him with someone else’s wand, avoid the duel of phoenix cores, and the boy will be dead before autumn.

  
In the meantime, he has a promise to keep.

  
Voldemort is asexual. This is not to say he is intimidated by sex. He is, in fact, completely scornful of it. Sex is instant gratification, a carnal and repetitive waste of time that improves neither self nor standing. It owns the minds of foolish men, making them weak to trickery. The lusts of simpletons have destroyed career after career, caused scandal after scandal. Being wanted is power and wanting is weakness. The parasitic sycophants who tried to manipulate him with it in the past failed because he is immune. He is strong where mortal men are pathetic.

  
He does not care how pretty a witch is if she has ugly, vapid eyes and pointless, insipid thoughts. What is the difference between a vacant-headed brat and a cow?

  
He is not a virgin however. In his youth, his peers found him attractive. Tom Riddle’s handsome face was one of the few resources he possessed. He dated older girls or wealthier girls in exchange for valuable books stolen from their pureblood fathers’ studies. He spewed sweet lies, servicing their very hearts for as long as he was obliged to. He went to their beds in exchange for political favors and alliances.

  
It was excruciatingly, mind-numbingly _dull_.

  
They bored him. They bored him so entirely that he wanted to strangle them to death just to be rid of their presence. The only way he managed to put on a convincing performance between the sheets was to picture gouging out their eyes. It was a delight when he finally gained enough power to avoid that sort of bargain. After Hogwarts, he did not need their help any longer. He was not forced to listen to hours of thoughtless prattle, shrill voices squealing for his attention. He was at no one’s disposal. By that point in time, everyone who mattered was already at his.

  
What joy does he reap from life then? Voldemort indulges in higher pleasures exclusively. A favorite is warping his Death Eaters psychologically one by one until they are simultaneously terrified of and besotted with him. Another is ripping the mind of an enemy apart with Legilimency. A third is delving deeper into the mysteries of magic, bending it to his beck and call. A fourth is simply accomplishing his goals, the intricate strategies of conquest spinning delightfully in his brain.

  
People who cannot experience these pleasures themselves simply lack the necessary power, will and intellect.

  
Voldemort believes all of these things with conviction. Nevertheless, there is a need for the act because the Lestranges desire his child. He will impregnate Bellatrix then. It will not take long. In this situation, he possesses all of the control; if he orders her out of his room immediately after it is done, she will comply. If she is troublesome about it, he will control her. There is no need to waste time indulging or pleasing her because pleasure is not the point. Pragmatism reigns here and he likes that just fine.

  
That night, he brews an aphrodisiac potion in a small cauldron on his desk. Potion making is usually too tedious to bother with but he is proficient nonetheless. Getting one from Severus would let Severus in on the secret- and a child is far too dangerous of a secret to share. He supposes he could always tell Severus that he and Bella are having an affair- perhaps even implying something humorous liking going behind Rodolphus’s back- but Severus wouldn’t believe it. The potions master is generally sensible about idiocies such as romance, something Voldemort appreciates. There was only that one questionable instance with Harry Potter’s mudblood mother.

  
Voldemort dismisses his musings and bottles the potion. He will take it if he needs it. Bella is one of the least boring people he knows but the action itself is so uninteresting, he won’t blame her if she fails utterly to appeal to him.

  
Deeper in his quarters, Nagini slinks over the back of a chair.

  
_I’m cold,_ she hisses softly.

  
Those words are perhaps the most affectionate snakes ever utter. Born entirely self-sufficient from the moment they hatch from their shell, serpents never evolved to feel fondness. They have no need for it. They do however, covet heat intensely. To Voldemort, who has always understood the speech of snakes, the words ‘I’m cold’ mean ‘I wish to embrace you.’

  
He is distracted though and he does not much care. _“I have work after this. Perhaps you can curl around Bella once I finish with her. Or you can go downstairs and keep Rod company while his wife is away.”_

  
Nagini hisses in displeasure and slithers off.

  
She weaves out the chamber door as it swings open, past Bellatrix’s black skirts and out into the corridor. The witch herself steps into the room.

  
Bella is indeed looking healthier than she did a year past. Her curly hair has started to shine again. Her cheeks are not so hollow. She still looks terribly thin but not emaciated, surely. She has also dressed up. She wears a flowing black gown with a boat-neck collar, long translucent sleeves spinning down to her wrists. There are black pearls on her neck and gleaming in her pinned-up hair. There is a fine tremble in her hands. Her large black eyes dart everywhere and touch everything but him. She lingers at the threshold.

  
“Come in,” he tells her.

  
Bella starts a little, turning and closing the door. She skulks closer by a few steps before stopping again. The fire in the hearth is the only light he has lit. It illuminates her pallid face, casting the rest of her in shadow.

  
“You took the potions?” he inquires, referring to a number of concoctions designed to improve fertility. They are both young enough as far as witches and wizards go but she is forty-seven and still recovering from Azkaban.

  
Bella opens her mouth to say ‘yes, my lord’ but no sound comes out. She settles for nodding mutely. The tremble in her is violent now, her throat fluttering as she tries to calm her breaths. He strays closer, brushing his knuckles over the back of her cheek. She startles, eyes darting to his face then half closing. She leans into his touch as if starved for it- but she does not move.

  
“Hush now, Bella,” he soothes her, remembering the context, stepping closer still. “Do you think that I would harm you? There is nothing to fear.”

  
There are tears in her eyes now. Even in the dim light, he can see a dozen emotions on her pretty face, some of them conflicting. Terror and want, caution and daring, worship and things he cannot name all war in her. She is such a complicated little thing. She is as cunning and ambitious as any Slytherin should be but she looked for him when he perished. She searched for him when all the others turned away.

  
He has told his Death Eaters since the beginning to be faithful but even he does not understand exactly why she would obey. He failed to kill Potter. He made a critical mistake. Betraying him would have only been the logical choice. At the very least, she could have abandoned him. She could have waited in safety until searching was easier.

  
It was as if she feared to run out of time, as if she thought he needed her immediately- and oh, he needed- and it was as if the thought of his death was so horrid that she could not bear to wait.

  
What sort of emotion compels a person to do that for another?

  
What is it?

  
He weaves his fingers into her pinned up hair, sharp white digits through soft black curls. He tilts her head back and drags his mouth over hers. Her intake of breath sounds like a dying gasp, like the sigh of a starved prisoner wasting away, forgotten in the dark. He feels her body crumple and fold toward his, then straighten again because she is frightened to press too close. He feels her lips part, her jaw angling so needy and wanting into his touch. Her hands flutter at her sides, fingertips just brushing his elbow.

  
He does not need to indulge her. He wonders though if there is any reason he shouldn’t. What is an hour of his time, what is a bit of careful attention when given to someone who waited fourteen years?

  
He puts his tongue to the seam of her lips. He kisses her lightly, pressing hard enough to bruise but only for an instant. He controls the tilt of her head, tipping it back to graze his mouth down the side of her neck. She trembles violently and he brushes reassuring caresses up the side of her arm.

  
“Shh, sweet girl,” he murmurs and a sob tears free of her throat. He feels the vibration of it in the crook of her neck; she smells like dust and lightning. He touches the back of her dress and the laces unweave themselves, spilling the gown like dark water down her ivory skin.

  
He finds this an odd moment and he reflects as he idly picks pins out of her hair. He likes the way she leans into his touch. He likes the way her eyelids flutter and her pulse jumps madly beneath her skin. He likes the way her hair begs him to seize it, wild black curls tumbling down as he frees them. He likes the sounds she makes, the bitten-off gasps that are so hopelessly overwhelmed, each raspy sob telling tales of drowning. He likes how she wants to touch him and is too frightened to actually do it. He likes that she is crying. He catches her tears on his tongue and he kisses her eyelids. He catches her when her knees give way and her body simply folds into his arms.

  
He carries her through the room to the bed in the corner. She clings closer in a ragged, unobtrusive way- face turned into his shoulder, fingers curling into his robes- and he likes that too. It is different and even absurd. He likes her. He has never before embraced someone that he actually likes.

  
Then again, there are precious few individuals he can tolerate for more than a few hours at a time.

  
His heart and soul are not with him of course. They are freezing to death somewhere far away, layered ten times over in frost; he has forgotten they exist at all. He feels a parched, crippling pain and he does not know what it means. He is both stranded outside of his body and trapped deep within, threaded sparsely through his own veins. Bella was sweet at fifteen. She was witty and flawless and it flits through his brain, the memory of being _enchanted_. She said the most vicious, ruthless things with guileless, big gray eyes. She made him laugh so hard his sides hurt, skipping through blood and sneering at death.

  
He does not remember though. He does not recall.

  
Fondness is the ghost of a dream. If there was a reason he kept her so close and taught her so well, it was long ago cut away. There were a hundred million useless emotions he did not need to keep.

  
He presses Bellatrix into the sheets, catches her jaw and bends over her thin body. She arches up, leaning up toward him and he rewards her with another kiss. She’s insatiable. She holds so still but somehow, she is terribly hard to control. He wraps her hair around his fist and presses her down again. Her shaking fingertips graze over his face; he grabs her wrist and pins it to the bed. She still manages to drive their pace, stealing kisses from his mouth, forcing him to be harsh.

  
She’s such a troublesome wretch; she drags him through the scraping filter of her frantic, senseless breaths. It’s pretty the way she writhes, this integument of panic coating darker impulses of want. It’s pitiful. He bites at her neck because he’s in the bed with her, because she’s tangled herself through his legs and he never noticed. The cry on her lips sounds like the cries she makes when he tortures her. The echoes in the air trace outlines of the Cruciatus Curse. Her body arcs up into his, curving breasts and hips and thighs luring him down. His patience wears thin.

  
He spells his robes away into the dark, letting them bleed off like shadows. He doesn’t need his potion; she’s impossible. She’s always been such an impossible, intractable little girl. He pulls her closer by the hips, dragging her legs around him. The matter at hand is simple. Biology and reproduction are the bare bones of existence. He does not have to drown in a dark pit of doubt with Bellatrix Black Lestrange. He splays one white hand over her face, pushing her glassy stare down and to the side. He takes her.

  
If he wonders whether or not she will be difficult to please, he does not wonder long. The rush of heat and slick compression is more consuming than he remembers. Her spindly body contracts almost as soon as he seats himself fully inside her. She thrashes and her muscles squeeze. She grabs at his hand that is still over her face, parted lips sliding over his skin. Her thighs clench around his waist until she has seized him like a vise. He was logical and cold only an hour ago but she seeps into him, tantalizes him, burns him away with an abundance of heat.

  
The witch’s orgasm slams the breath out of his lungs.

  
There is a snarl on his lips that ends in a hiss. Bella goes boneless and languid, gasping raggedly into the pillow. Her body is flushed now, sanguine from head to toe. Her hair is like ink, bleeding plentifully over a crumpled page. She does not even try to look at him. In fact, she does not seem particularly cognizant at all. Her eyes are as glassy as if he hit her with a Confundus Charm- but he did not. He has not worked any magic. It’s an enticing display. If she did not look so delirious, he would think she was doing it on purpose.

  
His role as a logical spectator has melted into a molten, indistinct shape. He is already grinding and pushing into her, causing sharp hitches in her breathing that grow ever more strained. Her flesh slicks and tightens around him, spasming in that difficult way. He pulls her to him roughly, slamming in deeper than before. She jerks in his grasp, back arcing off the bed and a cry tearing from her lips. Her eyelids flutter and she gropes blindly at the headboard. The heady pleasure permeating everything makes it impossible to concentrate. Bella reacts to his every movement and her writhing is either decadent or poisonous. He is completely indifferent to her but he is indifferent to pragmatism as well. He is indifferent to efficiency. He did not push this witch down for the sake of indulging _himself_ but he is indifferent to that fact too.

  
Isolation is painless until the first taste of warmth. He’ll fuck her gladly if it feels like this. He’ll crawl in beneath her skin if it lessens his cold.

  
Bella’s shifting and broken mewls get tedious. He puts his hand over her throat and squeezes, pushing down. There could be stars bursting across his vision. The constellation Orion could be stabbing pinpoints of light through his blackness. The more he seeks fulfillment, the more he feels lost. The closer he clings to her, the more he is aware of some gaping emptiness. He tries to hold her but his grip slips away. She blazes like a woman-shaped star and he is only a shadow, drawn in by this sick, gravitational pull. He covets her and he would hoard her away in a secret place if only he could pick her up. He despises her with a mounting irritation, torn apart and tangled in his own thoughts. The tension in his body crests and releases, shooting fiery delights through his limbs. He braces himself with one hand on the bed, trying to stifle his frantic breaths.

  
He has remembered to stop strangling her somewhat belatedly. He pulls away, sinking down to the sheets at her side. She isn’t moving and he wonders for a moment if she is dead. He feels so relaxed and sated that he cannot bring himself to care. Eventually however he reprimands himself, sneers at himself, and casts a wordless spell. Healing magic seeps through Bellatrix’s abused throat and bruised hips. A breath swells in her chest. Her blank stare breaks as she sluggishly blinks.

  
For a moment, he thinks to pull her into his lap and rock her to sleep, card his fingers through her sweaty, tangled hair. The thought is an idiotic one however. How long will he be rendered senseless? Bellatrix seems reluctant to stir so he leaves her there, summoning his robes back to him and rising from the bed.

  
The fire has died. Did he really spend so much time dallying with her? He feels disconnected. The darkened chamber is empty and cooler than Bella’s skin. He exhales a long breath, closing his eyes, massaging his temples. There is something wrong, something he cannot possibly look at. He has his back pressed to a void. He is not really here. He is shattered glass fragments ground down into cutting grains of dust. Why is this troubling him now of all times? This is tedious, all of it. He has work to do. He has a dream to realize. Heedless of his agenda, his mind shifts and stabs at itself and his being falls.

  
He turns back to the bed and heals Bellatrix some more. He caresses her awake and murmurs soothing encouragements. He helps her dress and she lets him aid her pliantly. He leads her to the door and she walks dream-like from the room. He wishes her a warm good night. She bids him farewell with a shaky curtsy and then slips off into the night.

  
He closes the door quickly after that and locks it with a spell. The cold is better, he reminds himself without really examining the words. He presses on, ghosts of sensation making it difficult to forget.

 

o0O0o

 

He puts the entire matter out of his mind with practiced efficiency. He is skilled at shutting things out and compartmentalizing. Thus, the worsening of the situation should be blamed entirely on Bellatrix- and perhaps the Lestrange brothers as well. He finds her outside his door at night just two days later, wide-eyed and wanting.

  
“My lord,” she whispers, fingering the doorframe, “forgive me- it- it did not take. My body must not be at full health. Perhaps if we try again…”

  
He knows she is lying. There is a subtle glow to her skin, an exultant radiance that infuses her every movement. She is just a mortal human witch but she’s as incandescent as her namesake. She is with child already; he would stake his existence on it.

  
For some reason, he pretends he is fooled. He lets her in. He lets her come close. She does not seem to mind that he hurt her last time. Nevertheless, he takes care to be more gentle…it wouldn’t do to harm his baby.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When was it that he met her?

  
That’s right. It was the summer of 1966. Most of his original circle of friends from school had settled down and gotten married, growing roots while he traveled the world. He had whittled down the lot, drawing the best of them closer and letting the dispensable ones drift away. His graduation had found him standing upon a lifetime of repugnant memories, corrosive disappointments and tiresome bargains. He’d wanted to distance himself from it. He’d needed to.

  
He had begun his life anew by then, of course. The past twenty or so years had been spent on travel, research and perfecting his abilities. His return from abroad was welcomed by a web of advantageous social connections, leverage and favors. Where his school experiences could not open doors, his unparalleled magical skill or Rabastan’s money did. He built what alliances he needed and rekindled friendships of old. Unlike his Hogwarts days, his acquaintances called him ‘Voldemort’- if they dared call him anything at all.

  
The moniker meant ‘flight from death’. It may have been a quaint conceit but he found it suitable. Death had always hunted him, grasping with the icy fingers of winter from the moment he was born. It had tried to starve him in the dark and dank. He felt it stalking him throughout his adolescent years, exhaling clammy breaths on his shoulder. Only now did he leave it behind. He was immortal. A _killing curse_ could not dislodge his iron grip on the world.

  
He was doing very well. He did not have all that he wanted but his prospects were promising. He knew the process. With patience and calculation, he could easily make real his dreams. There was only one sour note, stinging and bitter that tainted his return.

  
The rankling bit, naturally, was Dumbledore.

  
Voldemort had known, of course, that he would not be able to secure a position at Hogwarts. His sense of social maneuverability was too developed to allow him delusional expectations. Dumbledore had loathed him always from that very first day at Wool’s Orphanage. Voldemort did not think it was prejudice against his lowly origins or disgust at the muggle hovel. Dumbledore had made up his mind about Tom Riddle because of the stolen trophies he kept in his wardrobe. That was it, case closed. No set of flawless grades, compassionate tutoring of younger students or prodigious essays could sway him: Tom Riddle was a cold-blooded, thieving _Slytherin_.

  
The thought made Voldemort sneer at the best of times. What was life if not theft? A human being owned nothing beyond what they _took_. Everyone besides the exceptionally ignorant learned this at one point or another. Voldemort had simply learned it early on due to an utter lack of coddling or protection. No loving parents had masked the world’s ugliness from him with saccharine lies. In fact, he’d spent his youngest years losing his food to older boys and curling on the cobblestone while they kicked him endlessly.

  
Then he’d learned to be cruel.

  
So one brat lost his pet rabbit and two more lost their minds in a cave. In the face of minimal resources, you could only stay up by keeping someone else down. At first Voldemort had used his wits to protect himself. Then his bloodline gifts had appeared and he seized upon them, learning to move objects telekinetically, cause pain and speak to snakes. Those years were triumphant ones; he was delirious with joy at his burgeoning abilities. He had been categorized by default as the trash of society, barely cared for and completely unwanted. His power was irrefutable evidence of his worth. He was special. He was _better_. Before that however, he had very nearly lost his will. He had almost shrunken and shriveled into a lifeless, hollow thing- like all the other orphanage cretins with dull, dead eyes. Growing up in that sort of environment took indomitable force of will. Succeeding and overcoming it took magic.

  
And Dumbledore scorned him for this. Dumbledore despised him for the necessities of _survival_. Dumbledore begrudged him the few meager possessions he only owned because he had won them himself. Seven years went by and he sensed it in every Transfigurations lesson. Voldemort was excellent. He was perfect. He answered every question with comprehension, insight and originality.

  
Unlike every other teacher in the entire school, Dumbledore responded by treating him _exactly_ like everybody else. Whether prefect or head boy, promising ‘Mr. Riddle’ was given no more acclaim than the slowest and most bumbling of Hufflepuffs. It was deliberate. It was weaponized indifference.

  
Now Headmaster Dippet was dead, just as Voldemort had known he would be. Dumbledore, with his implacable smile and falsely twinkling eyes was there to slam the door in Voldemort’s face. With that, he was shut out of his ancestor’s legacy and the only place in the world he could happily call home.

  
It ached because Voldemort loved two things alone: Hogwarts and teaching.

  
This was the reason he found himself attending the Averys’ midsummer soiree on the 31st of June that year. Dumbledore could keep Voldemort out of Hogwarts but even he could not keep all of his students away from Voldemort.

  
The Slytherins, young pure-blooded socialites, were especially easy to reach.

  
While the selection of potential pupils was significantly smaller than Voldemort would have liked, most of them were the cream of the crop regardless. Ambitious young people were easy to entice. Wealthy, well-connected children had their uses even if they were idiots. He would sweep all of them into his following sooner or later. For now however, he had the time to be choosy. This was his opportunity to mold a person at their most impressionable state. This was his chance to take raw material and shape it into art. Like any artist, he wished to begin with the best materials available.

  
Thus for the past few weeks, he had been lurking around the edges of pureblood parties and skimming the thoughts of the adolescents there. Rabastan or Rodolphus accompanied him sometimes, redirecting anyone who sought to engage him. On other occasions he went by himself, using perception psionics to blend into the background. Some of his closer acquaintances had practically flung their young heirs his way but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted a prodigy. He wanted a star.

  
His search ended very abruptly that night before he was even halfway done walking the house. The Averys’ ballroom was a vast hall, floored in marble and bedecked in green silks. The soiree meandered through the corridors of the manor, every room equipped with a lavish buffet that replenished itself. Living fairies wept in lantern-like prisons, their multi-colored glow giving the party a garish look. The guests themselves had a few commercial types among them- renowned artisans or potion masters- but most formed what was unofficially referred to as the Wizarding aristocracy.

  
Tangled through them like threads of compulsion was Bellatrix Black.

  
The very first thing about the Blacks that anyone noticed was their unquestioned superiority. They were all beautiful. They were all clever. They were all rich as sin. They were the standard that pureblooded families attempted to match. The reason they had maintained this social position for so long however was indubitably their madness.

  
In short, they were manic depressive thrill addicts who would kill anybody for their goals. Intensity was highly potent when mixed with cunning. They were a perfect blend of risk-taking initiative and long-term planning. Bellatrix was a step above the rest of her family and that was the first thing Voldemort noticed about _her_.

  
She was fifteen and wearing a blood-red dress. There were rubies on her ears and pearls at her neck. Her eyes burned with a dark vivacity; it smoldered in her smile and made smoke of her curling hair. Gazes around the room kept snagging on her dauntlessness. She laughed often and the bright, wicked notes were the essence of magnetism.

  
Her nature was straight-forward however. The force of personality she projected was inflexible. Everyone noticed her at some point or another and she never failed to elicit a strong reaction. They either loved her or loathed her. There were no in-betweens. While Voldemort traded personas to fit each circumstance, a monster with many masks, Bellatrix was Bellatrix was Bellatrix.

  
He got a sense of this whilst sipping the thoughts from her head. She was not Occluding; she was young at this point and did not yet know how. Nevertheless, her mind had a twisting method to it. She tracked the progress of multiple matters at once with a predatory situational awareness. She analyzed the facial tells of the people she talked to, honing in on weaknesses and discrepancies. She charted the path of her allies and enemies throughout the room, navigating the social web. She was fully invested in the moment. Throughout this all however, violent whimsies kept teasing her imagination.

  
She wanted to grab one witch by the hair and slam her powdered face repeatedly into the tabletop. She wanted to see if _that_ wizard’s entrails were as slimy as his flattery. She reckoned the little brat in the corner would have done far better to be born without a tongue. Then she thought of five separate curses that would cut it out efficiently. It was not disdain that prompted these thoughts; it was the coagulating frustration of years.

  
This party, however coiffed and luxurious, was a bubble to her. It was a smothering cocoon of self-indulgent platitudes. The Wizarding elite gathered here, congratulating themselves on their ancestry and sneering at the festering world around them- while none of them did _anything_ to fix it. If she voiced her desire for action, she was dismissed as a silly little girl. Even her parents would tell her to quiet down and concentrate on securing an advantageous marriage. As far as Bellatrix was concerned, these people might as well be pedigreed ostriches hiding their heads in the sand while rats infested their plains.

  
From the edges of the party, Voldemort bit back a chuckle.

  
When he decided to approach her, he did not waste time. Skittish prey required careful strategizing. Bellatrix was neither skittish nor careful. Thus Voldemort opted to snare her with action instead of words. Her impulses were the key here, the consistent distaste in her that rankled and had no outlet. She wanted to hurt the people who failed to meet her pristine standards. Even now, laughing and surrounded by social peers, she felt smothered and suppressed. Talking simply wasn’t enough. She wanted change. She wanted blood. She would have taken the little knife in her pocket, the one Auntie Walburga gave her last year, and commenced with the culling. She’d fix the whole wretched world piece by piece starting with that _idiot_ on the dance floor who had been praising muggle inventions all night. She did none of this however because she couldn’t.

  
She couldn’t get away with it.

  
He passed by without ceremony. “Do you have a blade I could borrow?” he asked softly as her conversation lulled.

  
“Hmm? Certainly,” Bellatrix replied, placing a delicate knife no larger than a letter opener in his hand. It was far sharper than a letter opener needed to be; after all, it was hers. He took it with a word of thanks and she gave an absent response, not sparing him a glance.

  
When he strode onto the dance floor however, her eyes followed him. Couples whirled passed, lost in their specific machinations and petty gossip. With Voldemort’s brand of widespread, wandless legilimency on the table, the social web was all but visible. He could see who had the most influence over the others. He could see who was being ignored. Emotions and impulses spun a predictable pattern, upholding only a limited capacity for variation. Lust, envy, vanity, resentment, infatuation, lust again…One group of human beings was much like another. The Averys’ party guests were rich in motivation however, setting them apart. He located a sour note. He followed lines of irritation like tracing ripples in a pond.

  
The man at the center was young, drunken and completely misplaced. Benevolent little Hufflepuffs, as was this alumni, did poorly in a viper’s nest like this. He had been sorted into this social class by his family’s wealth, a cruel joke of fate. If only there were Sorting Hats to choose what babe was born to which family. Perhaps idealistic fools would not stray into the darkness, attempting for hours to preach the ingenuity of television sets.

  
Voldemort did not exert himself to feel sympathetic. The very purpose of lambs was for wool coats and sacrifice. _Who_ he murdered really wasn't the point. In this instance, it felt more like taking out the trash.

 

That's when he cast his spell. It was called the Levis Letum Charm or the Trivial Ruin. Casting it on another human being was illegal. Casting it on an entire large room full of people was considered impossible. Voldemort was a master legilimens however. For him, influencing perception on a large scale was very possible indeed. Under the charm's influence, no one in the room would consider his actions to be important. No matter what horrible thing he did, the onlookers would indifferently dismiss it. Later, they would not even remember that it happened.

  
He smiled warmly at the Hufflepuff alumni as if greeting an old friend. Then he drove the thin blade of Bellatrix’s dagger into the young man’s eye.

  
He had a methodical process to killing. There were certainly pleasures intrinsic to the act and he did not deny his enjoyment. He had struggled too fiercely for too long to claw his way out from beneath boot heel and refuse. Becoming the tormentor instead of the tormented was an elating thing. Then of course there was the freedom of it. Unlike charming young Bellatrix, Voldemort could let his victim shriek and clutch at scarlet wounds. He could slowly curl his fingers into a fist, making bones crunch and fold in on each other. He could roll his prey up with magic, compress living flesh into an ever tinier sphere then crush it until there was nothing left but dust.

  
He could make annoying people disappear.

  
Nevertheless, everything Voldemort did was for a purpose. He picked the most logical course of action and he executed it in the most efficient way. In this particular instance, the end result was a ballroom full of merry party guests who had not noticed a thing. Screams echoed in their subconscious minds but their malleable thoughts were deceived. Spatters of blood on the marble caught their eye; Voldemort’s magic stole away the context, the meaning and the significance of it. The music continued. The dancing went on. The interloper’s death was received with neither approval nor panic.

  
The only change was Bellatrix’s wide, gray eyes from where she watched across the ballroom.

  
Voldemort returned to her leisurely, wandlessly summoning a handkerchief and cleaning the blood from her knife. The intricate charm he had woven over the crowd ebbed, seeping its way back to nothingness. He reversed the blade in his grasp, handing it to her with a polite incline of his head. One of her acquaintances was pestering her from the right, asking her why she was pale.

  
Only Bellatrix noticed the dust on the dance floor. She was the only one he had excluded from his spell.

  
He left the house without saying another word to her, striding silently out the double doors and onto the estate grounds. It was dark and stifling in the midsummer heat. He was unknowable and dangerous, just a figure in the night. Boring little girls ran when they saw monsters. Common, plain little cretins cried at the sight of death. Human behavior was thick with such trends; instinct often predetermined spur-of-the-moment choices. Nothing made a rare, unique person more visible than how they reacted to violence.

  
Bellatrix came chasing after him. There was a light in her dark eyes and a hitch in her breathing. Her hands shook but not from fear. It was as though the sight of him killing had awoken in her feelings so visceral and forbidden she could barely stay calm. She moved forward as if pulled on a string.

  
He invited her to meet him in Hogsmeade after the start of term. He lured her with promises of power and change. The words were superfluous; she had already swallowed the hook, the line and a fair amount of the fishing rod. The situation could not possibly have done more to exemplify his hopes.

  
‘Bellatrix’ was a star in the constellation Orion. In Latin however, her name meant ‘warrior woman’. He would turn her into one.

 

o0O0o

 

It’s only in hindsight that he sees the wasted opportunity.

  
He is standing on the loft balcony of Narcissa Malfoy’s manor house, looking down at the parlor below. Most of the domicile is cast in shadow as it has been since Lucius’s imprisonment and the Lestrange’s extended stay. It is early in the evening, dinner only recently concluded, and Voldemort is alone. Downstairs in a merry circle of lamplight, his dearest friends sit.

  
Rabastan and Rodolphus are close together, their heads bent over a book as they talk quietly. They look studious- like the impeccable Slytherins they used to be, studying for Sluggy’s end of term exam. Despite the appearance of deep contemplation, the atmosphere is peaceful. Whatever words they speak are lost, drowned by the piano’s voice.

  
Bellatrix does not play elegant classical pieces. Wizarding musical theory may be innately whimsical; even so, the darkly playful lilt in her harmony is uniquely hers. No matter how sweetly the notes come there is a lower tone to hunt them. Resonant chords hound each arpeggio, bracketing them in with all the seeming of mirth. She plays music the way cats play with mice. It’s all claws, cruelty and soft, purring threats.

  
Narcissa and Draco, the house’s remaining two inhabitants, are nowhere to be seen. They have probably gone out. If they were close by, Voldemort would know. Both seem to think that Occlumency is only necessary when they are in the room with him. They are quite wrong. They could stand in the farthest wing of the manor and he would still be able to hear their self-pitying mental soliloquies.

  
He cannot hear the Lestranges; he is excluded from their minds as always. This brings him to hindsight once more.

  
His reasons for sampling Bella’s thoughts back then were practical. First he was looking for a student. Then he was determining the best way to entice her. His interest was piqued. His standards were most certainly met. It never occurred to him to delve more deeply into her mind. She was the pupil he wanted. What more did he need to know?

  
He remembers being pleased. Her volatile but strikingly clever brain engaged him. Why hadn’t he lulled her to sleep and explored every dark corner of her dreams? Why hadn’t he mapped out her memories and tracked each second of her flighty, precocious childhood? Back then, he had complete access to her innermost self. He hadn't once thought to indulge in it.

  
He covets her mind now. All of those decadent thoughts are there, traced through her dancing fingers on piano keys. He taught her to protect herself so that she could protect his secrets. Instead, her mental fortifications protect her from him. If the way she tempts him- even now without knowing he’s there- is a deliberate act, he cannot tell. If she devised his captivation step by step, he cannot detect the scheme. He is shut out.

  
Rod says something over the thrum of the piano. Bella throws her head back and laughs, flashing her teeth. Voldemort watches with his bird’s eye view from the loft.

  
People all have patterns to them, a set of behaviors they generally enact when presented with certain stimuli. Humanity as a group has one pattern. Sub groups have more specific patterns. Unique personalities like Bella, Rod and Bastan have patterns unique to them. Since he has known them for such a long time, he can predict their motives somewhat- even without legilimency. If Voldemort absolutely has to guess, he’ll say Bella does it on purpose. She’s from a conniving stock. She likes winning and she likes to get what she wants. If the object of her desires is nigh impossible to obtain, she is the witch who will go to all extremes to get it. Then his ceaseless mind hits the blank, black wall of Azkaban and he dismisses his conclusion entirely. No plan could survive fourteen years in that hell. It would have been eaten.

  
He looks down at the Lestranges again. Bella is no longer sitting at the piano though she has spelled the instrument to play on. She is standing behind the divan where the brothers sit, pointing something in their book out to them.

  
They are different when they are not with him. They interact with each other instead of watching him hungrily. They express themselves with freedom, taking the liberty of carelessness. Unless he spies on them, he never gets to see this undiluted honesty. Envy settles into the scraped out hollows within him, coating his mortal shell like a layer of acid. Even when he is speaking to them, he might as well be on this balcony above them with a bird’s eye view. He might as well be peering through a keyhole, locked inside a dark room.

  
When he is with them, they try to say exactly what he wants to hear. He plays with words to see them react the way he expects. Is a conversation really interaction at all when its participants are hyper-aware of consequence? If he cannot read their minds, how is he to connect with them? He can drag them into his shadows but he can never enter their circle of light. His approach would snuff all the candles out. The wall around their minds would instantly expand to protect their movements. Decades of power games, obsessions and sacrifices create an impervious barrier.

Perhaps it does not matter. Trivial exchanges should not tempt him. He has long since transcended such things. Recent events have muddled his thoughts and distracted him from his goals. He turns away from the balcony, letting the shadows engulf him.

  
Two nights past, Bellatrix told him she was pregnant and stopped appearing at his door. She’d had no other choice; her stomach was beginning to swell. The façade was ended.

  
Nagini slinks over the floor behind him and says, _I’m cold._

 

o0O0o

 

It’s three a.m. when he enters their bedroom. Rodolphus and Bella are asleep on their bed beside a stack of old photographs. Voldemort splays bony white fingers over Rod’s closed eyes, spelling him fondly into a deeper sleep. Then he goes to Bella’s side. He reaches telepathically out toward her and hits that unknowable barricade once more. Is she dreaming sweet dreams of the baby? Does she suffer nightmares about stone prisons and the grasping hands of wraiths? He cannot hear his answer so he watches her. He studies the flutter of her eyelash against her pale cheek. He measures the hunch of her shoulders beneath her pine green quilt.

  
Then he leans down and clamps his hand over her mouth.

  
Bella jolts awake, dark eyes flying open. His warrior woman is too battle-honed to be complacent. She has a wand in her hand before his magic presses her down, effectively holding her still. Sleep and violence slowly clear from her gaze. When she realizes who he is, she goes limp.

  
He lifts his hand from her jaw and brushes a lock of hair away from her face. He quietly says, “come with me.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you for all the support and comments. I'm very pleased that this story is provoking so much thought. ^^
> 
> Second, this chapter assumes that 'Delphini Diggory' is an alias from start to finish. This may be an assumption on my part but really...She stylizes herself after a bird and understands snakes, so why name her after the dolphin constellation...? The script writers were too lazy to look up star charts...? I picked a name that, in my opinion, makes more sense.
> 
> Lastly, I couldn't break the scenes down into smaller units so this chapter is pretty long. o_o

The situation has been nagging him incessantly, distracting him from his campaign. Emotions he cannot really feel seize him when he turns a corner. They engulf him in phantom waves for split seconds at a time. Then they vanish and leave him tracing their hollow remnants, hounded and dissatisfied and vexed. He has not planned for these ineffable needs and cravings. He cannot rationalize his distraction or his impulses. Perhaps, if he considered the problem deeply, he could isolate the source.

  
Introspection reaps a bitter fruit however; he is not inclined to employ it. His fragmented self has become a labyrinth- memories of feeling, memories _of_ memories. What he does know readily is this: he wants something from his three dearest friends, Bella, Rod and Bastan. He wants their time. He wants their proximity. He wants their secrets. ‘Why’ doesn’t matter at all. It’s a whim. It’s a fancy. His preoccupation could be Bella’s doing or it could be a lingering symptom of being half-dead for fourteen years. It’s irrelevant because it is so easily fixed.

  
The Lestranges are at his convenience. He can have anything he wants from them. He can sit down with them at dinner. He can bid them pore over tomes with him in his office. He can walk into their bedroom in the middle of the night and he needn’t offer reasons for any of it.

  
He does not tell Bella why he woke her three hours before dawn. He scarcely knows why himself. Apparently that’s fine because she does not ask him. She follows along behind him on bare silent feet. Her nightgown looks eerie compared to the black she usually wears. It’s as though her dormant soul was ignited by the life growing inside her, enshrouding her with the blazing white light of a star. It’s as though all the shadows simply burned away. When he catches sight of her face, she looks calm and timeless.

  
The change does not make her easier to read.

  
“What were the three of you talking about yesterday evening?” he inquires with all the seeming of idle curiosity.

  
She is slow to respond. He turns sharply to look at her, thinking she perhaps intends to lie to him. Instead he sees her blinking, eyes focusing as though she is only just now coming awake. That gray gaze fixes on him, growing keen with lucidity. “Yesterday, my lord?” she repeats, glancing about the corridor. “The brothers were looking over star charts and astrological mythos. They were trying to cheer me up; my moods have been changeable of late.”

  
“A common symptom for witches of your condition,” he tells her. “Star charts then. You were choosing a name for the child?”

  
The Blacks always name their children after stars or constellations. On the few occasions they do not, they resort to Greek mythology. Voldemort does not disapprove. A child with an ambitious name has something to aspire to. That’s more than he ever had. His given name lent him only enough noxious disappointment to transform his suffering into hate.

  
Bellatrix however looks rattled. “We would not presume, master, to make a decision without your consent. We were only considering possibilities.”

  
He turns away and continues walking down the hall. She follows along duly.

  
“The child is for the three of you,” he tells her softly, listening to the nighttime sounds of the house. There is a wind blowing outside, whistling tonelessly through the trees. “I see no reason why you should not pick the name yourselves.”

  
He means what he says. Though it distances him from the role of biological father, he doesn’t doubt the Lestranges’ ability to pick a worthy name. No matter how much he controls them, they are perfect in a way he will never match. They were born knowing who they were and what they were meant for. They were not obliged to waste years of time, scratching for resources and inventing self worth. Even now, he mutilates himself without thinking twice about it. He’ll use himself ill for an advantage. He’ll accept an injury if it reaps him more strength. And why not?

  
He has put on every act from admiring people he actually scorns to loving people he actually hates. He has allowed himself to be a trophy, a curiosity and a tool to those he needed to use. No matter how much he loathed the role- to the point of nausea, to the point of _revulsion_ \- he sold himself to it. Pride is no priority when success is on the line. He has harmed himself in the casting of dark magic. He has dashed his soul to pieces. People who value their own well-being had mothers to cry for them when they got hurt.

  
His body is separate from him, a mere vessel used to enact his will. He is stronger for this mindset. Even so, there are stains all over his godly raiments. There is rot within this omnipotent shell. The past is so far away he might as well forget- but he cannot. He cannot forget and for that reason, there is imperfection. Bella, Rod and Bastan are better suited to things like this. He is the Dark Lord. He is also a filthy orphan starving his way through depression and wretchedness. How on earth could he name his child?

  
He does not tell any of this to Bella. Admitting deficiencies, even those borne of times since past, is nigh impossible. He would rather pretend that he was never young. It’s intolerable to think of his life as a whole unit. He has even forbidden Rabastan from speaking of it, leaving Bella and Rod in the dark. He wants to divorce the journey from the destination.

  
Still Bella’s silence draws more words from him. He makes his voice very gentle and smiles in the dark. “If you are having trouble deciding,” he says, returning to the matter of the name, “I am glad to offer an opinion.”

  
Bellatrix inhales. “Rod says Lyra,” she confides after a moment. “Bastan says Saiph. I told them…Meissa has a nice sound to it.” Even with his back to her, he can tell she is wringing her hands. “It means ‘shining one’.”

  
“That’s one of Orion’s fainter stars,” Voldemort recalls. Astronomy as wizards take it mostly concerns superstitions, mythology and history. Beyond the scope of cultural nuances, the subject is relatively useless. At the moment, it gives him a critical insight into Bella’s state of mind. “Meissa marks the fabled hunter’s head,” he says pointedly, “right next to Bellatrix, his shoulder.”

  
She flushes, deeply enough that he can see it even in the dim light. He takes a step nearer, lured to across the distance between them.

  
“Don’t you feel close to her, Bella?” he asks, a lilt of amusement sneaking into his voice. “She is within you, growing. There is no place closer for her to be than here.” He touches the tips of his fingers to her stomach and feels the breath gust out of her. “Yet even in naming our daughter you try to pull her closer still.”

  
Her lips part, soundless as she grasps about for words. Her hair and her eyes are part of the darkness. Her skin and her clothing are white. She says faintly, “it was only a thought.”

  
The conflicted feelings she projects appeal to him. Her voice is hushed with fear, uncertainty and want. He could easily worsen her state, use words to lead her farther astray and into terror. He could catch her wrists and whisper horrible ideas in her ear. She is lovely when she weeps. Of course he is tempted to take her apart; she is composed only of delightful, enchanting things.

  
He has come to associate these insecurities of hers with a sexual high he cannot get anywhere else. The female shape is not enough to pique his interest. It takes Bella’s vibrant heart driving the pulse beneath his touch. It takes something as singularly uncommon as her intensity.

  
Physical pleasure isn’t what he wants tonight however. Embracing Bella was the cause of his current state of mind, his ceaseless disquiet. The temptation is worth resisting because satiation breaks him, tears at him, flings emptiness before his eyes in a way he cannot dismiss. He wants to consider the dilemma from a distance. He wants moderation- even if her hair begs him to seize it and her eyes plead, _“destroy me.”_

  
She fled when her lie could no longer protect her. He keenly felt the loss. Nevertheless, it was the lifeline he needed, the stable place just between satisfaction and drowning. He wants her to speak to him; to get her to do that, he must calm her.

  
He decides to be honest instead of sadistic. “I do like the name, Bella. Meissa has a graceful sound to it, like a sigh or a hiss. The star itself is seldom seen from cities…for all its pivotal significance to the constellation. It is the mind above the heart, logic and clarity for a hidden child.”

  
Bella draws a shaky breath, looking dizzied. “Then…?”

  
“You should tell the brothers to accept your choice,” he advises. “You are her mother; you know best.”

  
She looks away, hiding a giddy smile in the shadows. He sees her steady herself with a hand on the hallway wall. He takes her elbow.

  
“Come,” he says, “we should sit. If you get too excited, you could have another attack.”

  
She nods compliantly. He steers her into the parlor, the very same that the Lestranges occupied the night before.

  
With that matter dealt with, he sits with her on the divan and opens safer topics of conversation. He tells her of their campaign and the most recent updates. There will not be another meeting until next week. The Lestranges however are above the nattering, scheming Death Eaters he has to micromanage. They are his lieutenants, mainly controlling the bulk of his fighting force. In older times, Bella and Rod personally handled the combat training of new recruits. Bella’s way of turning violence into an exciting game really appeals to their young initiates; the late Barty Crouch Jr., for example, had been wrapped around her finger. Now Rod and Bella delegate, planning military action against the enemy with Rabastan. Unlike Rabastan, the husband and wife have endless ideas for destroying enemy morale. Voldemort often lets them handle psychological attacks. _‘Who should we kidnap? Who should we torture? Who should we kill?’_ The bonds between people make damage ripple outward; one well-chosen fatality can wreak despair in hundreds.

  
Bella responds to his questions attentively. Her answers are enthusiastic and flavored with that cruel sense of humor he shares. The jagged pieces of Voldemort settle, calmed in their far flung oblivions. The chasm gnawing within his chest allows its teeth to dull. It is a skulking beast, lulled to sleep by Bella’s hushed voice. She’s his magic harp. She’s his bandage for wounds he won’t acknowledge.

  
They speak until his vexation ebbs and his thoughts come into focus. The ‘medicine’ has worked and his goal is accomplished. He can concentrate now on important things. The ministry is toppling so easily that it almost feels like a game- but there is always the matter of the boy, the Order and the prophecy. There is always this sense of unease hanging in the back of his mind. He has to consider every possibility and every potential outcome. He doesn’t want to miss things.

  
Death would be all too pleased to swallow him piece by piece, like a macabre seven course meal.

  
When dawn comes, Bella is fast asleep in the circle of his arm, her head bent to his shoulder. A quill floats in the air, scratching a list of strategies out into a worn leather book. He is satisfied with his plans so he spells the journal away; then he deals with the witch. He lifts her into his arms, carries her back down the corridor and tucks her into bed where he found her.

  
It’s like putting a box back on its shelf. She has fulfilled her purpose.

  
Still as he leaves, he thinks back on names. He says it a few times to himself, just to try the sound of the word.

  
“Meissa.”

 

o0O0o

 

The worst memory of all is this one.

  
He was sitting on his bed in the Slytherin dormitory. It was November in 1940. He was thirteen. Earlier this evening, the fourth year girl he was dating finally brought him her father’s prized book on ancient Wizarding genealogy. Waiting for the time and the privacy to read it was agonizing. Dark Arts books he could share with Rabastan- the pureblood boy who was now face-down and fast asleep on the bed across the room. This book was for Tom Riddle’s private research however. It was personal. It was secret.

  
He opened the cover with shaking hands.

  
He had already gone through all the school records for the past century. The name ‘Riddle’ was nowhere in them. His father had clearly not attended Hogwarts. Unfortunate as this was- he would have to continue operating under the inconvenient label of ‘mudblood’- it did not upset him. It was common knowledge that Salazar Slytherin’s line had disappeared. If Tom, the scion of this line, was still alive today, it only stood to reason that his family had gone into hiding. It seemed like a sensible conclusion. Society was tedious and the Dark Arts required intensive study to perfect. Tom Riddle Sr., the man his useless mother had loved so ardently, could be living in some remote hideaway unknown to the Wizarding World. He could be far too powerful to find, obscured behind layers of magic.

  
Reclusive and solitary, he might not even know about his son’s existence.

  
Lots of adult wizards dallied with women when they were bored. Tom didn’t really see the appeal but it was a common behavior. Sleeping with a muggle woman was clearly more time efficient if the goal was base pleasure. Displays of a wizard’s fantastic power could win her over; that same power would make it easy to vanish from her life. The thought of touching a muggle disgusted Tom but he could understand.

  
It made sense that his mother had been such a dalliance for his father. Tom, the unknown child, would of course have to work especially hard to prove himself to a pureblood Slytherin. He only hoped that his studies, his network of influential friends and his resources would be enough. If he found out that his father was an especially strong practitioner of ancient magic, he would probably wait to approach him. Going back to the orphanage in the summer was a bitter pill to swallow, especially with the war and the ever sparser portions of food. He would only get one chance at this however. He had to make the best of it.

  
Until then, he would survive. He could take care of himself.

  
He wanted to show his father a son anyone would be proud to have. Gaining access to his family’s no doubt priceless magical secrets was an afterthought. This was about acceptance. This was about proving he wasn’t the worthless offspring of a discarded woman. This was about reuniting with someone like him, someone who understood the things he understood and breathed the method of Slytherin House. This was about finally… _finally_ not being alone.

  
Dreams of learning from his father and redefining magic together distracted him. He had to shove them away, ignoring the warm feeling in his usually frigid chest.

  
He wandlessly summoned a small light in the palm of his hand. The tome was written in Old English and nearly unintelligible handwriting. A tap from Tom’s wand transformed the scrawl into neat, modern language.

  
He began reading on a historian’s search for the Slytherin line, tracking generation after generation down from Salazar himself. The records extended over centuries but they ended long before they got to Riddle. The last entry was for two hundred years ago. When he finished, he read it once more just to be sure.

  
The end result was keenly disappointing. He had learned plenty of useful things about his ancestors but nothing about his father. He continued to search for the rest of that school year and the school year after. His hopeful fantasies eventually floated to the back of his mind, muted by a lack of progress. It was not until the end of his fifth year that he thought to look for his mother’s family, for Marvolo. The revelations following brought his dreams back to him, more vivid than ever before.

  
This time, however, they were ruined and tainted by shame.

  
He learned everything that summer. He saw the faces of his so-called ‘family’. Every worst possible scenario was brought to life in their eyes. His father was a weak, contemptible muggle. His father had plenty of food and a very comfortable house. His father indeed knew about him and had abandoned him regardless. The dereliction, the hunger, the pain, the emptiness, the cruelty- all of that was his father’s deliberate gift to him.

  
There were no magical family secrets to be had. There was no acceptance- not on Riddle Sr.’s part and certainly not on his son’s.

  
The young parselmouth did get a beautiful heirloom out of tracking down and defeating his mother’s brother. As a consolation prize, it suited. The fact remained that he had been naively reaching for an idiotic and impossible future. It felt like fate was spiting him, twisting the knife already buried in his gut- and he had walked right into its cruel design. There were plenty of worthy people attending Hogwarts with him, wizards and witches with abundant value. Why hadn’t he kept to his task, extracting secrets and favors from them, instead of wasting his time on insipid nonsense? Why had he lulled himself to sleep with dreams of protection and love? In hindsight, the foolishness of that night with the book was poison.

  
If Voldemort had a time turner that could go back sixty years, he would walk up to his bed in the dormitory and tear out his younger self’s eyes.

 

o0O0o

 

He has developed the habit of finding them. He’ll appear out of the darkness when they go on raids, idly assisting in whatever assassination, kidnapping or interrogation they have planned. He’ll sit with them at dinner, brightening their faces even as Draco and Narcissa blanch. He’ll lure them out on long walks at night, over the estate grounds. The four of them speak together for hours about their work, then their opinions, then their future plans.

  
The Lestranges are cautious at first but repetition erodes caution. He is mild for them, easy; he refrains from his usual mind games to cultivate complacency in them. He projects the façade of this unbreakable friendship, this unparalleled trust and respect. He feeds it to them word by word, day after day, and they consume it until they believe.

  
Rabastan forgets himself enough to reminisce over their earliest adventures, captivating Bella and Rod. Rodolphus forgets himself enough to laugh openly, to offer up the cutting insight he usually keeps mute. Bellatrix’s reserve dissolves in the corner of Voldemort’s eye, revealing hungry, pining glances and lingering looks sent his way.

  
Honesty is one of the few things he cannot demand from them. That does not mean he is incapable of getting it. He has tricked people into trusting him a million times- before he ever used magic, before he ever read minds. It has been many years but he remembers how to keep his cruelty hidden. He can dress his bloodless smile up as warmth and fondness. He can play the angel so convincingly that his own victims weep for his suffering. He will not go to these lengths for his enemies, not anymore, but it is worth the effort for his friends. Terrifying and tormenting the Lestranges are fleeting pleasures compared to this.

  
Besides, they are certain to mess something up sooner or later- especially Bella. Her moods are too volatile for perfect obedience. She’ll maim someone she was not supposed to maim or kill someone he still has a use for. The brothers might very well go along with whatever ill-advised thing she does; she has that much influence over them. Then Voldemort will have a perfectly believable reason to punish them for it without damaging this play act at all.

  
He feels patient. He feels so patient it’s almost like feeling content.

  
He forgets to take his followers’ fragile states into account however. If he could read their minds, he would be more aware of how they react to his attention. Everything they feel is filtered through the moderator of what they want him to see. No matter how much information he coaxes from them, they never share it all. He has to steal it from corners. He has to slip into their personal space.

  
He does this one evening when they are not to be found in the main house. The parlor is empty but for Narcissa who stares unblinkingly at a newspaper. He makes his way to Bella and Rod’s suite using a spell to detect the sound of breathing and the shuffle of footsteps. The room itself is luxurious and posh, designed as it was by the Malfoys. Signs of the Lestranges’ presence however manifest in subtle details. The embroidered knights on the armchair have been charmed to mutilate each other with needlepoint swords. The paintings of Lucius’s ancestors are all empty, occupants having fled in terror. Bellatrix has scratched a to-do list into the lounge’s coffee table. It reads, _‘fix the mirror, lessons w/ Draco, raid on 6/11 w/ Dolohov, Nott’s trouble w/ press, calm Cissy down, shopping’._ She also seems to have been throwing knives at the wall, if the cluster of stab-marks in the plaster is any sign.

  
Bella is not currently within the suite. Instead, the personal lounge is occupied by Rabastan and Rodolphus. They are not studying grimoires or sifting through reports as Voldemort would expect. Rabastan is kneeling on the ground beside one of the armchairs, looking up at his younger brother. Rod is sitting, his mouth set in an unfeeling line and his eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. He does not move. From the unfocused quality of his eyes and from the way Bastan is trying to rouse him, Voldemort quickly guesses his state.

  
“A relapse?” he asks softly, causing Bastan to whirl around.

  
“Master,” Bastan says tensely, a relieved exhalation gusting from his lungs. He stands, bowing as Voldemort approaches. Voldemort waves the formalities aside, coming closer to examine Rod. Bastan kneels beside his brother again. “Yes. I found him like this after I returned from the werewolf negotiations. Bella’s downstairs, I believe. She said something about tutoring Draco today. Rod was supposed to be reading reports on the opposition’s chief voices in the ministry.”

  
“He is shut inside,” Voldemort concludes softly, grasping Rod’s jaw and turning his head from side to side. “He has boxed himself within his mind so completely as to become imprisoned. It’s a defensive action…for preserving one’s own sanity. He should not have had any reason to use it now.”

  
“He did this,” Bastan murmurs, looking nearly as haunted as his unmoving brother, “in Azkaban. Years would go by- Bella and I wouldn’t be able to get a word from him. Once I even convinced myself that he had died in his cell. I raged. I mourned. I blamed myself. Then one day he called my name in a rasping voice, like shattered glass in a mortar. In my mind, I’d been living as an only child for six and a half years.”

  
“How did Bella fare?” Voldemort asked, absently sweeping a hand over Rod’s blank eyes.

  
“Fine, until Sirius escaped,” Bastan answered slowly. “They kept themselves sane by snipping at each other. Quip after quip. Sometimes they’d even laugh at each other’s jokes, cackle and jeer for hours. Blood _is_ thicker…She didn’t mean to kill him. Hit him with a stunner, she said, knocked him through the veil. She was always convinced he’d come around some day. Now her memory is all confused and jumbled. If I ask her about it, she might exult and laugh. She might grieve and wring her hands with dismay. She might completely forget that he’s dead and tell me, ‘he’ll come around, Bastan. A Black is a Black is a Black’.”

  
“And you?” Rabastan blinks, pausing as if he does not understand the question. “How did you stay sane in Azkaban?” Voldemort clarifies.

  
Rabastan’s mouth shapes soundless words, shadows writhing in his eyes. He tries to speak then gives up. Instead he unbuttons his sleeve and pulls back the dark fabric. Knotted in the skin of his arm are innumerable scars, all the crescent shape of tooth marks. Some of them are white and over a decade old. Some of them are still pink and healing, stabbed into his flesh only a year past. They were from that two day wait after the Department of Ministries- before Voldemort came for him and Rod, taking his worthy followers home and leaving the failures behind. He must have sunk his teeth into his own flesh hard enough to draw blood. Rabastan’s eyes are darting around the room as though, by looking away, he can evade the memories. Voldemort kneels beside him, seizing his face in both hands.

  
“Bastan,” he hisses, then again more sharply. “Bastan, look at me.” Rabastan is white in the face but he meets Voldemort’s eyes. For a moment it’s like they’re eleven again and Bastan is demanding, “Riddle, how the _hell_ can you do that without drawing your wand?”

  
Voldemort holds the ghosts in Bastan’s gaze steadily. “It’s over now, my friend. It’s done.”

  
Bastan nods but his face crumples. Voldemort pulls him close, clasping him in a tight embrace- a stifled sob shakes the eldest brother’s frame. Voldemort murmurs things like, “there now,” and “up you get,” and pushes Bastan into another seat. He summons a glass and a bottle from the liquor cabinet, bidding it pour itself in midair before he presses the wine into Rabastan’s hand. “Drink that,” he says, “and tell me what caused all this.”

  
Rabastan gulps the red wine like it’s fire whiskey, scarcely grimacing at the stinging, sour taste. He takes a long drink then another. He breathes deeply. “Bella started it,” he explains hoarsely as Voldemort thoughtfully walks the perimeter of the room. “Just an idea of hers. A theory. She told us this wasn’t real, that our heads had cracked into a self-preserving delusion, that madness had divorced us from reality. She said we were still in those cells, dreaming of escape. She said when you came for us, we would be punished for our insolent, shameless fantasies.”

  
“That silly girl,” Voldemort sighed. He did not raise his voice, wary of destabilizing Bastan. “Doesn’t she know dream from truth?”

  
“Not so much anymore, my lord,” Bastan confides, “but she hides it well.” He draws his wand, flicking it at the coffee table. A dozen other words appear, etched in Bella’s handwriting and scratched out again with slicing lines.

  
_‘Write mother, afternoon lesson w/ Barty, Andy’s birthday present, find the damned elf, Cissy’s spell book for pregnancy and childcare, poison the fence...’_

  
Voldemort stares at the table for a moment. Bella’s mother is dead. Barty Crouch Jr. is dead. Andromeda Tonks has no right to a birthday present from her estranged sister. If the ‘elf’ in the note is meant to be Narcissa’s, Narcissa has told Bella time and time again that it is gone. He is not exactly sure why she scratched out the last two notes. She clearly realized some error in writing them however, crossed them out and vanished them.

  
Are her memory problems truly this bad?

  
He turns back to Rabastan. “Try drawing a cold bath for Rod,” he instructs firmly. “Submersion in ice water should be shocking enough to wake him- and different enough from his experiences in the prison. If that does not work, we’ll try potions.”

  
“Thank you, master,” Rabastan breathes out, fervent in his gratitude. “I will make the attempt immediately.” He sets his glass down and pries himself to his feet. A flick of his wand has Rod floating limply through the air. Bastan draws his brother out of the room.

  
Voldemort turns the revelations over in his head. He has always loved studying pain and despair. He loves how they consume people differently, with endlessly different nuances and effects. When he was a child, he would look at people he knew and wonder what expression they would wear on the brink of death. The Lestranges are superior people so their terrors, sorrows and agonies are more superbly riveting.

  
Rabastan’s stories, on the other hand, are not fascinating. Instead, they leave Voldemort distantly unsettled, putting cracks in his clinical perspective. He never meant for this to happen to his friends. Everything before his fall was directly under his control, even wild cards like Dumbledore contained within his well-wrought strategies. He challenged his friends to be better than they were. If they succeeded, he rewarded them. If they failed, he hurt them and called it a lesson.

  
They feared nothing but him.

  
That is not the case now. There is an abyss within him that needs to be fed. There is a void in the Lestranges that stole them away. He can never see all the blank, erased sections of memory. He cannot find the lapses, the missing context, the baffled indecision folded up to look like faith. He doesn’t know things about them and he doesn’t know things about himself. It vexes and angers him but there is something else. There is some other feeling beneath that, drowned too deep to be truly understood.

  
The only solution Voldemort can decide upon is that his enemies must suffer tenfold what he planned to inflict upon them before. The world shall pay for this in blood.

 

o0O0o

 

Not much time passes before he is watching Bella in the Malfoys’ cellar and feeling perplexed. He understands perfectly why Rod is ill, which fears of Bella’s made him ill and why she had those fears in the first place. Comprehension is the first step to control. He already has a plan in his head, a knitted-together set of prompts and actions to deal with the situation. The thing he truly does not understand, the thing he perhaps has never understood, is the scene before him.

  
In the wide, echoing cellar, Bellatrix is giving her nephew a dueling lesson.

  
Support pillars divide the large stone space, stretching up to the vaulted ceiling above. Shadows pool abundantly in the corners. The only light comes from two sconces, firelight flickering about the dueling pair. Bella is moving at perhaps one eighth of her usual speed. Still she flicks a challenging barrage of spells Draco’s way, forcing him to think fast as she strolls between pillars. The young pureblood shields himself from what he can and hastily dodges the rest. He times his attacks well, sending stunning charms toward her whenever he glimpses her in the dark.

  
As they spar, they fling idle quips at each other. Mockery during combat is something Bella insists upon; it’s the fastest way to unnerve an enemy and strike at their insecurities. Angry opponents neglect their defenses for the sake of attack. Frightened opponents hesitate when the time comes to strike.

  
“Not tired already, auntie?” Draco calls. His voice is light despite the intense focus in his eyes. “We could rest for a bit.”

  
She blocks his next stunner wordlessly, covering a fake yawn with her free hand. “I may be drowsy,” she allows. “The lack of challenge does get tedious.”

  
“Well, let me wake you up then,” Draco exclaims and fires a volley of hexes at her.

  
Considering the wholly inadequate combat education he received at Hogwarts…and his initial lack of potential…he is doing remarkably well. Bellatrix is an exceptional tutor but even she cannot turn something useless into a resource. The boy must have had latent talent or the lessons would not bear fruit. Voldemort is pleased to see it. Draco is learning his aunt’s style with grace. His thoughts themselves are less promising.

  
Since he does not realize Voldemort is in the room, Draco is not occluding.

  
Bellatrix treats her nephew with indulgent sweetness. Despite this, the boy is afraid of his aunt. He has always been frightened of her- not because she acted cruelly toward him but because of how she looked. He remembers the gauntness of her face after Azkaban, deathly skin stretched tightly over her skull. He remembers how she looked like a wraith, her eyes dark as bottomless pits and her smile a nightmare. He associates that memory with his father now, dread welling within him constantly whenever he sees her. Is that what Lucius will look like when Draco sees him again? Is that what Draco will look like after he makes too big of a mistake and gets himself locked away? All he sees is death and horror. They wear at him, beat him down from every direction and put cracks in his smiling mask.

  
He can improve his dueling skills easily- but then Bellatrix wants him to hurt people and risk himself getting hurt. Then she wants him to torture helpless prisoners and pretend its funny. So that’s what he forces himself to do. He pretends to be grateful for her aid and protection. He pretends he loves the Dark Lord and being a Death Eater. He pretends he isn’t frightened enough to vomit _all the time_. He pretends he doesn’t think constantly of where he could hide his mother, where she might possibly be safe from all this, like Dumbledore mentioned that sickening, dark night…

  
Draco is not so good of an actor that he can hide these intense emotions. Bella sees through him- Voldemort would stake a horcrux that she does. This is the source of his confusion because Draco’s true self is spineless. Ungrateful. Completely lacking in ambition. The boy is like a broken child cowering in the dark. He refuses to adapt to his situation or use his many resources to his advantage. Instead of abandoning him, Bella leads him gently along step by step.

  
All the while, Draco sees his greatest protector as another monster to fear.

  
Voldemort frowns, watching Draco scramble to master the next challenge his aunt throws his way. Why does Bella do it? Why does she invest so much of her time in an ingrate? Saying ‘it’s for Narcissa’s sake’ would be the easiest explanation. Narcissa, on the other hand, left Bella to rot in Azkaban for fourteen years without so much as a visit. What did the Malfoys ever do to aid their fallen family? Bellatrix was abandoned by them as surely as Voldemort was abandoned. How can she not resent it? Does she buy Lucius’s cheap excuses of ministry scrutiny and powerlessness to act? She cannot possibly; she’s too sharp to fall for paltry tricks.

  
Her own blood have betrayed her. She gives them the same unwavering devotion that she gives to him.

  
To Voldemort, this seems like a nonsensical choice. The Malfoys don’t deserve her aid. They don’t deserve her. He would have killed to have an aunt, or any relative at all, like Bella when he was Draco’s age. The spoiled Malfoy heir should be weeping with joy.

  
He has seen enough of the lesson, he decides. He steps into the light, diffusing the energy of their spells with an absent gesture. They both startle, lower their wands and sink to their knees.

  
“Master,” Bellatrix greets. Her voice has turned suddenly breathless even though the entire duel with Draco did not affect it. “You honor us.”

  
“You’ve taught your pupil well, I see,” Voldemort praises her. He studies the dazzling smile that appears on her face, searching for signs that she thinks this is a dream. “Draco, do you feel ready to fight in my ranks?”

  
“I believe so, my lord,” the boy replies. He is chalk white now and rigid. Occlumency barriers have sprung up around his mind, tight and impenetrable. He stares unblinking at the hem of Voldemort’s robe. “I am eager to serve you.”

  
“Thanks to your aunt, your fighting ability stands to be of great use,” Voldemort tells him quietly, “but I fear this is not the skill we shall see on the field. Won’t you will flinch at the last moment…as you did when you had Dumbledore at your mercy?”

  
Draco’s throat works soundlessly for a second. Then he says, “I will not make the same mistake twice, my lord. I promise.”

  
Voldemort says, “prove it.”

  
Draco turns his head, following Voldemort’s gaze to the row of cells in the back of the cellar. The boy stands numbly, disappearing briefly into the shadows. When he returns, he is guiding the ragged form of a captured auror. His wand presses into the sallow man’s back.

  
“Kneel,” he tells the prisoner softly. The captive falls to his knees.

  
Bella rises smoothly, going to lurk at her nephew’s shoulder. Her eyes are bright, glittering in the torch light. “Go on, Draco,” she encourages, a dark excitement in her voice. “Show our master what you have learned.”

  
Draco points his wand at the prisoner. The auror is broken already, half-starved and dead-eyed; wounds on the man’s body indicate that he has been tortured extensively. He is the sort that the Death Eaters have no more need for. Draco chose well.

  
A flicker of thought breaches the boy’s occlumency shields. He cannot cast the Cruciatus Curse unless he thinks of people harming his mother, or insulting her. The aggrieved fury he is able to manufacture within his own memories enables his magic. He pretends the auror is spewing slander even now.

  
“Crucio,” says the boy with artificial malice.

  
The effect is sufficient. The prisoner shrieks and falls, thrashing on the stone floor. He writhes, his back arching violently off of the ground and spittle flying from his mouth. His eyes bulge with agony and veins stand out from his skin. Bella smiles warmly, approval in the way she holds Draco’s shoulder.

  
Is that what a family does? Are those the lengths family will go to for each other? It’s unfathomable.

  
“Enough,” Voldemort murmurs and Draco ends the curse. “Finish him.”

  
The boy pauses, his breath stuck in his throat. His shields are perfect now, betraying none of his thoughts. Voldemort has witnessed this type of scene enough times to guess how he feels however. There is something dying behind Draco’s eyes. The light that lives in happy children and ridiculous, innocent fools is being snuffed out. It becomes resignation. It becomes emptiness and cold.

  
Voldemort can work with those things.

  
“Avada kedavra,” Draco says. There is a flash of green light and the captured auror slumps dead to the ground. Voldemort gives a nod of approval.

  
Bellatrix, more of a Slytherin than Draco could ever hope to be, jumps artfully upon the opening.

  
“There you have it, master,” she says, her voice welling with pride. “He has come a long way, has he not? While he did not manage to kill Dumbledore himself, none of us ever really expected that outcome. Thinking of the vanishing cabinets and managing to repair them, however, allowing your forces to infiltrate the school- that was quite resourceful for someone so young! He has proven his ability to kill in your name, my lord. All together, surely it fulfills the request you made of him a year past- that he salvage his family’s honor and amend his father’s mistakes.”

  
Draco freezes, staring at the corpse beneath him. He does not even lower his wand, still holding it out like a statue.

  
This is Bella’s game, Voldemort realizes. She has surely been waiting for her chance. Since she is the one making the request of him, she is the one who takes a risk. If he is angered by the suggestion, he will lash out at her instead of at Draco or Narcissa. Since she has more favor than they do, the punishment will likely be far less severe. She is not only advocating her sister’s family. She is protecting them from any potential backlash.

  
He turns it over in his mind furiously but no matter how he tries, he doesn’t understand it at all. Why do people care about each other when all sense dictates they shouldn’t? Why can’t he simply dismiss this behavior as generic human idiocy? After a moment, he simply gives up. When he came down here, he had every intention of letting Lucius waste away in Azkaban for another thirteen years. Now he finds that he just doesn’t care. Refuting Bella’s argument would take more effort than it’s worth. Instead, he lets her have what she wants.

  
Why ever not?

  
“Indeed,” he allows, “he has adequately met my demands. Draco, I take it your wish is to have your father released from Azkaban?”

  
Draco chokes, “yes- yes, my lord, it is.”

  
“Then I will allow it,” Voldemort softly tells him, “but you must continue to aim high. Do not let your auntie’s efforts be in vain.”

  
“I won’t, my lord, thank you!” The boy is struggling to fight back tears, bowing low. “I will ask my uncles to bring Father back-”

  
“You’re a grown man, are you not?” Voldemort conjures a scroll and hands it to the boy. “Go to Azkaban and retrieve Lucius yourself. The wardens there are mine. Give them this letter and they will aid you.”

  
Draco looks unbalanced but he nods again. He straightens, taking the scroll and bowing his way out of the room. He continues to spew words of gratitude until the door shuts behind him.

  
Voldemort hears the crack of Draco disapparating. He turns to Bella, absently spelling the corpse on the floor to disintegrate. Dust coats the stone underfoot. “Your husband is ill,” he tells her, making the bright smile on her lips disappear.

  
“Ill…” she repeats, a lost look on her pretty face. “…what has-”

  
“A relapse,” he answers, straying closer. He puts a hand beneath her jaw, tilting her head up toward him. “ _Someone_ told him that this life of ours isn’t real. We could hardly have young Draco asking him to run errands at Azkaban in that state, could we?”

  
Her face turns ever more blank. “Oh. I see,” she responds vaguely. After a beat, she adds, “if my family has caused any inconvenience, master, I humbly apologize.”

  
“Bella,” he baits her, taking the last step, bending his head to speak in her ear, “dearest. Is this not real?”

  
She is shaking like a leaf. “Master,” she falters, her voice thick. “I don’t…know…What must I say?”

  
“Be honest,” he orders and weaves his fingers into her curling, black hair. He draws his fistful of ringlets taut, making her shudder. “If this is real, then I’m kind to you because you have earned my favor. I spend time with you because your company is worthy. I grant your wishes because you deserve to have them.” His lips brush against her earlobe. “But if this is a dream, you have nothing to fear at all. You can _take_ your desires. In dreams, there is no such thing as consequence.”

  
He releases her, stepping abruptly away. She stumbles, catching herself on one of the support beams. Her eyes are wide and wanting. The mask of reserve she usually wears has melted away in the dark. She is certainly being honest now, he thinks. He didn’t expect her to actually obey him.

  
“This _is_ a dream,” she says after a moment, bitterness in her low voice. There is also conviction. She has not the slightest trace of doubt. Her gaze drifts to the torchlight as she speaks. “I jeopardize it every time I go to sleep. Every time I turn a corner. Every time I come awake. The next blink of my eyelids could dislodge this fragile fantasy.” She closes her eyes tightly, her lip curling away from her teeth. “I feel stone beneath my back when I lay in my soft bed! I feel cold when I kneel by the fire. No matter how many times I bathe, I still find grit beneath my fingernails and the dust of decades in my hair-” She wraps her arms tightly around her thin torso. “Is it _them?_ Their clever new trick? If they send me sweet dreams, will my _shrieks of anguish upon awakening better sate their hunger?!”_

  
“If so, you mustn‘t keep shouting, Bella,” Voldemort reasons, finding a pillar of his own to lean against. “The _dementors_ will hear you.”

  
She stares at him in shock, as if startled to see him still standing there. Then she shrinks into herself a little and nods. “Yes…yes, you’re right, of course…”

  
Her fractured state of mind is riveting in its own, morbid way. Voldemort detests the loss of control that allowed her to sustain this psychological injury. He adores the fugue state that has caused her to carelessly speak her true thoughts. That’s why he plays along. That, and because there is a trap in his agreeable demeanor. There is a hook that will drag her out of this darkness as soon as she swallows it.

  
“We’ll just stay very quiet,” he suggests, pouring his dangerous words into the air. Technically, he is pretending to be an insidious figment of her imagination. “We’ll just be a bit more careful.”

  
“Yes…” she agrees, glancing at his hand where it rests on the pillar. Then she glances longingly up at his mouth.

  
He remains where he is, watching her in the torchlight. “Is there something you want, little girl?”

  
She startles again, turning her head to look for a route of escape. Then she stills, deliberating. Ragged breaths drag through her lungs, adding a slow, tattered rasp to the quiet. There is a conflicted twist to her lips and a muted terror in her eyes. She knows this is a perilous situation but she desperately wants the bait. He has never had to try hard to tempt her. Her daring and her denial overcome her better judgement.

  
She leaves the torchlight, stepping into the shadow of his arms. She reaches for him, a violent tremble in her fingers as they ghost over his face. He remains still, deceptively docile, like a serpent singing, _“I never bite, my dear little bird. I’d_ never _catch you and squeeze out your life.”_

  
A broken noise tears from Bella’s pale throat. Her hand settles firmly over his jaw and she leans up, pressing her lips to his mouth. Her kiss feels dry and delicate. There is wistfulness in the gust of her sigh. It’s like being kissed by a butterfly. Her touch flutters over him, brushing his cheek with one hand, settling timidly over his shoulder with the other. Her eyes are half-lidded as if she is in a daze. It’s eerie how easy it was to convince her of his harmlessness.

  
When he still does not reprimand her, she nestles closer. She wraps her arms around his waist, embracing him tightly. She lays her head on his chest, a sob of relief escaping her. What strange impulse is this? She wants to be cradled? She wants to be held? He lets his arms fold over her slender back, closing her in.

  
He presses his face into her soft hair. “How regrettable, dear heart,” he whispers, his voice a hollow tone. “You guessed wrong.”

  
Tension snaps through her body; she jerks in his arms, a panicked cry on her lips. She struggles wildly but he holds her fast, one arm braced across her back and his hand twisting in her hair. Her hands scrabble at his back, clawing him in her frantic bid to escape. He is immovable, indifferent to the burn of her nails scoring him. He never lets pain keep him from what he wants. Her breaths become hysterical gasps as she gradually settles down again, her mind stabilizing enough to try and save itself.

  
He can practically hear the staccato beat of her heart pounding in her chest. He can feel its vibrations exquisitely where she is pressed against him.

  
“Master,” she begs tearfully, despairing. “I’m so sorry- forgive me- the memories are too strong-” Her sentences are disjointed. Her meaning is barely coherent. A sob shakes her frame and she drops her head to his shoulder. “Master, _please_ …”

  
“But this _is_ real,” he croons to her, rocking her ironically in his arms. “And look what your confusion has done. It made you insolent. It made you _insatiable_. Or is that how things are between us, Bella? Am I yours to touch whenever you want?”

  
“No, no,” she chokes, weeping so strongly now that the words are distorted. “No, please! I lost my head! I got lost in the corridors- I’m not s-sane anymore, master!”

  
“You have to try harder than that,” he tells her simply, looking up to watching shadows pool in the vaults of the ceiling. “You must ground yourself. Your doubts are not only keeping you from your goals; they are damaging your closest allies. Rod and Bastan can hardly stay afloat if you’ve your mind set on drowning.”

  
“Please don’t be angry with me,” she pleads, her voice muffled and broken. “I didn’t mean to. Please, I’d rather endure torments than make you angry with me. I’d rather get hurt.”

  
“No, that is impossible,” he murmurs. “I cannot harm you.” He wandlessly summons an armchair and sits, pulling the sobbing witch into his lap. “Do you remember why, Bella?” She shudders, hiding her face and breathing too quickly. He tugs on her hair, forcing her to look at him. “Do you remember why?”

  
“…no, my lord,” she admits. Tears streak her pale face. She scrunches her eyes shut, sending more spilling down her cheeks.

  
“Because,” he reminds her patiently. He leans down to kiss her eyes. “You are pregnant with my child. Remember?”

  
She blanches. “That- that was a dream-”

  
_“No, Bella,”_ he refutes sharply. “That was real.”

  
She reaches her limit and starts to hyperventilate. He summons a small vial from his quarters. This is not the same calming draught he used when the Lestranges first told them their wish. It is a less powerful derivative, altered to make it safe for pregnancy. He made a batch a week ago, just for something to do while he thought through his plans. It was safer for him to make it anyway. The equations are tricky and the incantations more so. Were he to commission some, he would need to ask a true potions master. Only Severus is qualified and Severus openly dislikes Bellatrix.

  
Now Voldemort pulls Bella’s head back and presses the vial to her lips. When it empties, he clamps a hand over her mouth until he sees her swallow. Her breaths calm gradually. He does not try to reason with her until she finally quiets. After a few minutes, her sobs and her gasps have stopped. She simply trembles.

  
“I’ve got the right of it now,” she assures him in a distant whisper. “I will keep it straight this time. We…we asked you to be a surrogate. You agreed, but only once Dumbledore was dead. And…Snape killed him. And then…and now…”

  
“Yes, that’s right,” he affirms. “Do not forget again. Do not let your suffering rob you of the happiness you’ve earned. It’s done.”

  
“Yes, master,” she nods, shutting her eyes tight, hiding her face.

  
“Poor thing,” he soothes. “Is this what happens when I cherish you? You cannot believe in a life without challenge. That’s easily solved, of course. I will simply create some adversity.” He stands, still holding her in his arms. “Well…we’ve accomplished all sorts of things today. Shall we go see how Rodolphus is doing?”


	4. Chapter 4

Bellatrix falls asleep before Voldemort has carried her halfway back to her suite. She is a gentle weight in his arms, her tear-stained face turned into his shoulder. It’s a sure testament to just how much energy her breakdown cost. While the experience was no doubt jarring for her, he thinks she will be much improved after waking. Her confusion was a direct result of his attentive demeanor this past week.

Something within her doubts anything too good can be true. Rather than suspect him of duplicity, she turned her suspicions on reality itself. Bellatrix cannot believe that Voldemort would lie to her. She would sooner take his tender words for a dream.

  
Thus he deliberately frightened her. By creating a negative experience, he verified the positive ones. It was the simplest and most effective solution.

  
It was therapy.

  
This will not be enough, of course. Bella’s state, and the states of the brothers’ as well, is precarious. If Voldemort is going to indulge his newest whims, he must remember to factor in their trauma. Creating a paradise for them and simply waiting for them to misstep is not a sustainable plan. He must issue challenges. He must set attainable goals of not-insignificant difficulty. Then the Lestranges, by far the best of his resources, will remain effective.

  
He makes his decision, formulates a few plans and puts it out of his mind. It’s such an easy thing to fix. Now that his attention has been brought to the matter, he doubts he will see any more problems.

  
Back in the suite, Rodolphus is awake and cognizant. His hair is wet and he is shivering slightly. Rabastan is sitting near to him, speaking in low tones. Every few moments, Rod answers his brother’s questions with a quiet word. They both look up when Voldemort enters.

  
He gives them a nod and continues on through the parlor. He has already decided to set Bellatrix down in her bed before he speaks with them. What he sees out of the corner of his eye as he passes the brothers however comes as a surprise.

  
Voldemort does not need legilimency to notice when he is being stared at intensely. From Bastan, he catches a flicker of triumph. From Rod, it is one of yearning and hunger, keen as Voldemort cradles Bella in his arms. Their minds are, as always, swathed in occlumency. This leaves their master to interpret their expressions, fit puzzle pieces together and learn what it all means.

  
He has an inkling.

  
He steps into the bedchamber and puts down the unconscious witch. He spells her pine green coverlet and sheets to nestle around her. She does not stir, too drained to be disturbed by the movement. He does not pause to study her. Instead, he lets his gaze sweep critically over the shadowed room.

  
He has not been in the bedchamber for several days- not since waking Bella up in the middle of the night. It is not much changed beyond a few more notes scribbled on the walls and an upended chair. On a table beside the window however, there are a stack of parcels- clearly delivered via owl. Some of them are opened, revealing crystal bottles, glittering jewelry and bits of lace. Voldemort goes to look at the labeling and nods to himself.

  
They have all been ordered by either Bastan or Rod.

  
He picks up one of the crystal bottles, sensing nothing from the glass. According to the label, it is an obscure and currently illegal brand of perfume. Voldemort is no expert on pureblood luxuries but he recognizes it from his frequent forays into his followers’ minds. By stealing thoughts, he picks up all sorts of trivial information. While the perfume maker produces many mind-altering scents, this one has almost no magical properties. Its value resides within the rareness of its fragrance. He opens the lid, breathing.

  
It smells like dust and lightning, bringing to mind that sense of powerful magic and storms. It smells like Bella the night they conceived their child. It’s the same scent he once described to Rabastan, elated from the triumph of casting a lord level spell.

  
It lures him in.

  
Only Bastan would know him well enough to choose a perfume like this for Bella. Additionally, if this parcel arrived just recently and Bella wore the scent weeks ago, _it isn’t the first shipment._ Voldemort could even go a step further and surmise that Rabastan commissioned this scent to be made. How many pureblood ladies could possibly wish to smell like magic itself? Surely there is only the one. Only Bellatrix would want and dare to catch the interest of a wizard who lusts for _nothing_ but power.

  
Voldemort has repeatedly wondered if Bella engineered his current state, eliciting desire in him by design. Now he imagines her sitting at her vanity that night several weeks ago, Bastan advising her to pin up her hair and Rod doing it for her because her hands were shaking. He pictures them leaning close together, quietly weighing successes against failures, deciding what she should say should she go back to Voldemort’s room. It was a consensus- three strategists determining the best way to approach him and then, the best time to retreat. Rod and Bella psychoanalyze their enemies constantly; why shouldn’t they psychoanalyze him? How much easier would it be with Bastan’s decades upon decades of information concerning Voldemort’s preferences?

  
The Lestranges never act alone. The Lestranges never disagree with each other. They have all the same interests and all the same objectives. The only thing that surpasses their seamless devotion to each other is their obsession with him. From the start, he should have blamed _all three of them._

  
If Voldemort is closer to Bellatrix, he is closer to the brothers as well. If Voldemort is intimate with her, that intimacy carries over. Rod and Bastan have been actively helping her intrigue him. They claimed that they wanted him to be a ‘surrogate’ but that role needed only last one night. Now it seems their agenda has only just begun- and didn’t they all but admit that they planned this out years in advance?

  
He turns resolutely toward the door only to pause in his steps. It is obvious that they have been trying to draw him closer. He simply cannot fathom why. He has no theories. Bastan looked triumphant a minute past. Rodolphus looked riveted. What is their goal if the sight of Bella in Voldemort’s arms means success? The three of them already have the child, Slytherin’s true heir, in their possession. Do they simply want more of his time and more of his favor? Considering Rod and Bella’s reactions today, they cannot even _handle_ more!

  
He wonders now though, he does- and he shoots a sharp look at Bella’s sleeping form. Was this breakdown of hers and Rod’s even real? Or is it another perplexing attempt to tangle him into their daily lives? It seemed real. It truly did. If he cannot read their minds, how can he discern what is genuine and what is a machination? He is reduced to conjecture once again.

  
The crux of the problem is that he does not understand. He knows they are scheming but there is no reason for them to scheme. If there is more that they want- power, magic, security, rank- they have plenty enough favor to ask him for it! There is no comprehensible goal that he can determine. His anger diffuses into aimless irritation. How can he even respond to something so _vague?_

  
Since Voldemort cannot reason through it, he pauses his attempts. He requires more information on which to base his conclusions. He returns to the parlor, calmly taking a seat across from the brothers. He will fish for answers.

  
“Feeling better, Rod?” he prompts quietly.

  
Rodolphus looks at him but there is something disjointed about his movements. The yearning remains in his eyes, burning through abstraction like a corrosive chemical. He still seems like someone who has only just woken from a dream.

  
It’s real, Voldemort decides. It may be _calculated-_ but it’s real.

  
“Yes, master,” Rod says, speaking only loud enough for his voice to carry. “I apologize for…for the loss of my senses. Did Bellatrix…?”

  
“We had a chat,” Voldemort informs him easily. “I discouraged the idea of dreams and delusions. It was a trying conversation for her, as I’m sure you can imagine, and it seems to have worn her out. I think she will do better once she awakens. Please try to support her next time…instead of getting dragged along.”

  
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Rod mutters hastily, bowing his head, “forgive me, please.”

  
“It isn’t as though I expect you to recover effortlessly or quickly after what was done to you,” Voldemort tells him, meeting Bastan’s eyes as well. “That would not be fair of me.”

  
“How can we ever thank you?” Bastan says with feeling. “You are so kind to us.”

  
Voldemort dismisses the words with an absent shake of his head. “On a new topic, my friends, I noticed some packages when I put Bella to bed. Doing a lot of shopping, are we?”

  
“They’re presents for Bella,” Bastan explains. He is taking the brunt of the conversation away from his brother, likely because Rod is still only half-there. “She is happy so long as she has enough to do. Idle moments however can wear on her nerves. The earliest stages of pregnancy come with a lot of mood swings, I’m told. We wanted to cheer her up.”

  
“Then you should buy poisons, knives and lethally cursed items,” Voldemort suggests lightly. “Maybe unusual implements for torture as well. All these years and you think perfumes and baubles can make your sister-in-law happy?”

  
The words have their intended effect; Bastan misses a beat, his face going blank. His ready alibi crumbles, its flaw of logic made clear: _no one_ who knows Bella would try to cheer her with harmless, non-violent gifts.

  
“…Well,” Rabastan falters. “Yes, weapons make her _happiest_ \- but- it’s appropriate to encourage more feminine interests-” He scrambles again, making a vague gesture with one hand. “It isn’t as though Bella dislikes luxuries…”

  
“No, I suppose not,” Voldemort agrees mildly, pretending not to notice the clumsiness of Bastan’s defense. “After the time you all spent imprisoned, having fine things again must be comforting.”

  
“Yes!” Bastan nods, jumping on the chance his master offers him. Relief crosses his hawkish features. “That’s it exactly. She deserves to be comfortable again, especially now. We can’t help but dote on her.”

  
It’s almost depressing that even the people who have known Voldemort the longest still fall for his simplest traps.

  
“And Bellatrix looks so much healthier lately,” he continues, guiding Bastan into the verbal snare. “Shining hair. Color in her cheeks.”

  
“Her health is the child’s health.” Bastan has relaxed, his manner warm and a smile on his mouth.

  
“Health begets beauty.” Voldemort keeps his expression easy and his voice soft. “Don’t you think she has become more beautiful lately?”

  
“Yes, master,” Bastan agrees at once- and there it is again. There is triumph in his eyes once more. It surpasses the pleasure someone would usually be expected to feel over a positive remark. He leans forward, smiling freely. “Even more than health, the child is a source of happiness. As that happiness grows, Bella will surely become lovelier still.”

  
The pitch is both more believable and more eloquent than a salesman’s. Rabastan is still, without a doubt, attempting to _advertise_ his brother’s wife- in front of his brother, no less!

  
That’s when Voldemort understands.

  
Honestly, it hits him like a brick. It hits him like a rebounding killing curse and the comparison is not painless. The Lestranges did not request a child for the sake of ‘having a child.’ They did not even ask for the sake of having _his_ child. No matter how genuinely delighted they are by the idea of Meissa, she is nothing but an excuse. She is a knot. She is a veritable and permanent blood tie, binding Rodolphus, Rabastan and Bellatrix…to Voldemort.

  
The Lestranges are attempting to become, literally and indisputably, his family.

  
Voldemort, who has never had a family.

 

Voldemort, who can barely grasp what a ‘family’ is.

  
He says goodnight to the unwitting brothers. He wishes them well and leaves them with orders to rest. When he quits the suite in favor of the manor’s dark halls, his mask of calm disintegrates. The silence of the corridor buzzes in through his ears, assaulting his brain. The emptiness bites, numbing and horrible. It is still an emptiness that he knows and can accept. The warm room at his back is something else. It pierces him like a pike of doubt through his chest; he can scarcely draw breath around it. Is this the ‘happiness’ Rabastan spoke of?

  
It’s agonizing.

  
Voldemort submerses himself in the ever thicker darkness, doubling over in pain. He staggers on, bone white fingers clawing at the wall. There is a soundless snarl on his lips, his oldest hurts making him bare his teeth. Snakes do not require family. Snakes are self-sufficient from the moment they hatch…but Voldemort did not hatch from an egg and Voldemort has _never_ been a snake.

  
He is cruel because he has always been angry. He is angry because he has always been in pain. Denying and rejecting his very humanity is preferable to admitting he once was weak. He wishes he had never been a child, lining up _again and again_ to meet smiling, indifferent couples. There was to be no ‘family’ for him, not ever. There was barely even enough food- enough air- enough _room to sleep._ The nights were all shrieks and wailing. The days were all smog, harsh voices and violence.

  
He learned not to hope. He learned that the world was his enemy. He learned to acquire resources for himself. Who would think that over sixty years later, the only people he actually likes would _conspire_ to adopt him as their own?

  
He thought it was all about Salazar Slytherin to them. He thought he was to be a surrogate, a proxy, a stand-in. Instead, it’s about him. It’s _for_ him.

  
This idea hurts him the most. His being is no longer suited to emotion. A construct of brittle glass cannot channel fire. He is too fractured. He is too scattered. He is in pieces and some of those pieces are dead.

  
He falls, a heap of black robes in a dark hallway, crumpled against the wall. His hands are bloodied from where his nails have dug in. Despite this, he feels…nothing.

  
The numbness is its own kind of anchor.

  
Voldemort stares blankly through the shadows, manufacturing distance. The whole point of not having sex with Bellatrix was distance. How should he react to all of this? Is there any viable way to react? He cannot decide so he steps back. Within his mind, he turns corners and he violently closes doors. He has less dangerous toys to amuse himself with. He has easier diversions.

  
His usual response to pain is retaliation. Here, indecision renders him passive. He is so thrown by the situation that his only recourse is to escape it. He stands slowly and pulls his wand from his pocket. He knows how to apparate without a sound, to dissolve his being like smoke.

  
So he leaves.

 

o0O0o

 

People with very unique personalities occasionally have a cadence to them. There is an atmosphere created by their mannerisms and words. There is a rhythm to the way they think and breathe. _Dangerous_ unique people- such as Voldemort, for instance- have toxic cadences. Anyone who interacts with him, however indirectly, is likely to experience simultaneous fascination and repulsion.

  
He is terrifying. His reputation for cruelty precedes him. His visage is monstrous and his actions are more so. On the other hand, he speaks gently. He smiles kindly. He has every solution to every little problem; his prodigious abilities can grant almost any wish. Oftentimes, he’ll say the very words his target has been most desperate to hear. Legilimency or not, he is insightful enough to know them. Worst of all, every one of his choices makes logical sense. Who can argue with logic?

  
He is persuasive.

  
Voldemort’s cadence confuses. The people who interact with him must think quickly while managing conflicting impulses. He knows this because he can hear their thoughts. He is aware of how they react to him even as they are reacting.

  
It’s laughable, considering this, to realize he has been swept away by the cadence of the Lestranges. Their toxicity is visceral. They project and evoke emotion at a rate he cannot anticipate. Since that very first night with Bella, Voldemort has been swept along from case to case- deviating from his usual habits, reacting to the stimuli they presented. They tempted him. They tantalized him. They did it on purpose. He would congratulate them on their effectiveness were he not the surprising victim of it.

  
The Nott family villa is located in the countryside and is the smallest of several estates. It is currently uninhabited though Death Eaters do come and go. For a week long stay, it suffices. Voldemort collected Wormtail from an information gathering job two days ago. Now he is sitting before the study fireplace, half-listening to the animagus’s report.

  
The report is not interesting. Even if it was however, Voldemort doubts he could have paid attention to it. His head is full of Rod’s yearning stare and Bastan’s confidence. Bellatrix is woven through nerve endings and synapses, ghosts of her touch all over his skin. Even now, there are echoes of her around him. Her presence lingers, as if her brightness burned after-images onto his retina.

  
Twice now, he has come awake in the night from foggy dreams of her. He remembers her touching him lightly, lips brushing like butterfly wings. He remembers her struggling senselessly in his arms, clawing his back, desperate to escape. He remembers her pounding heart, the raw terror of it seducing him. His mind was busy at the time, occupied with the crystal-clear goal of fixing Bella’s perspective. It’s only now that the details resurface, making him ache.

  
This desire is like a poison. Aren’t stars radioactive? He remembers it distantly from a faded, cut-away life- the stern man with his brown suit, teaching modern science to orphans. He struck them with a ruler if they stared into space. ‘Stars are burning balls of radioactive gas, shining on earth from light years away. Write it correctly on the slate in clean print or receive three lashes.’ It became irrelevant later. Astronomy at Hogwarts contained almost no scientific data at all.

  
Despite immortality and seven decades, this is the first time Voldemort has ever been reduced to lusting for someone. He responds to these dreams by coating himself in ice- literally. During the waking hours however, it is easier to keep a clear head. His logicality reasserts itself in the silence. He can slowly siphon the poison out and rebuild his equilibrium.

  
He does not think of the Lestranges’ true goal again. His brain shies away from that part. Even Wormtail’s list of insipid trivialities is better food for thought. He resigns himself to listen to it.

  
It’s boring. That’s exactly the point.

  
“The Order has been making themselves scarce and choosing their battles carefully,” the rat is explaining, shuffling around somewhere behind Voldemort’s chair. “Listening around isn’t enough to get substantial information. They’re clearly giving up on Hogwarts though, master. I heard snatches, whispers- they’re leaving McGonagall and Flitwick to fend for themselves.”

  
“Any word on Slughorn?” Voldemort inquires quietly, watching the fire.

  
“He barely waited for last term to end before taking off,” Wormtail refutes nervously. “All the other spies are keeping their ear to the ground too, of course. The ones who don’t think they’re too good for it anyway. Severus, for example, would _never_ stoop to chasing ‘extraneous information’…”

  
“It can hardly be denied that a spy with superior skills should attend to superior problems,” Voldemort assures Wormtail pleasantly.

  
“If you say so, master,” is the sulky reply.

During Wormtail's school years, Severus was lower on the social hierarchy than Wormtail himself- or so Voldemort understands. Apparently Severus's higher standing among the Death Eaters is a bitter pill for the rat to swallow.

  
“Well…” Voldemort sighs, shaking his head. “Slughorn prefers to avoid messy affairs and war is the messiest of them. Once we have stabilized society, he is certain to resurface. There are no comforts to be had on the run. At that point, I will make an offer he cannot refuse. The next generation of witches and wizards deserves a teacher like him, who will identify and hone their potential.”

  
Wormtail, who Slughorn completely ignored for seven long years, says nothing to this.

  
“Indeed,” Voldemort continues, now speaking more to himself, “making changes at Hogwarts should be an even higher priority than making changes in the Ministry. Today’s children are tomorrow’s leaders. With Dumbledore finally gone, I can prevent them from being egregiously wasted.” He taps one nail against the arm of his chair, eyes narrowing. “Getting rid of the garbage is the first thing to do. _Muggle Studies._ Trite brainwashing and political propaganda that completely ignores the truth. Endless praises for telephones and movie theaters, no talk at all of firearms and nuclear warfare. The new curriculum will explain all the ways muggles kill each other and could potentially kill us. Then perhaps it should cover the sophisticated shield charms Wizarding Society may use to protect against such.”

  
“…Very good, master,” Wormtail offers after a beat. “That’s an excellent plan.”

  
Voldemort ignores him. “For that, we’ll need a new Muggle Studies teacher. A new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Ah, and of course, a new headmaster. Hmm, I must appoint suitable people. A harder hand is required at first; the children will be moderately rebellious at this stage. I need harsh but not sadistic…vicious but not insane…The Carrow siblings, perhaps. We’ll find replacements for the other teachers as needed. Like Binns, for instance, gracious. Still droning the students to sleep after all these decades. Not to mention the Ministry-redacted parts of his curriculum, claiming the witch burnings were a lark and entirely over-looking Salem in the States...Didn’t Dumbledore care about education at all?”

  
“You sound upset, my lord,” Wormtail notes.

  
“Is it not upsetting?” Voldemort returns. “A headmaster should care whether the subjects in his school are being taught well. That requires engaging rhetoric, not the empty repetitions of a ghost. There are probably a dozen more problems hidden in the corners. You would know better than I.”

  
“B-better than you, master?” Wormtail stutters.

  
“About Dumbledore’s gross indifference to his post,” Voldemort elaborates, irritation sharpening his voice. When Wormtail still hesitates, he says, “because you were there? Not four years ago? Tell me, Wormtail, what else is wrong with the school?”

  
Wormtail thinks for a moment. “There is never enough bacon at breakfast time, master.”

  
Voldemort closes his eyes. The fury is cleansing in its way, purging him of intoxication. This is the type of idiocy he is used to dealing with. This is the type of lackluster conversation over ninety percent of all people can provide. Without moving an inch or uttering a word, he casts a bone breaking hex on Wormtail’s leg.

  
The rat shrieks in pain, hitting the carpet with a heavy thud. Voldemort watches the fire. Even the whimpers Wormtail makes are unpleasant to hear. There is such a stark contrast with Bellatrix, whose pain and whose cries are siren song. Perhaps Voldemort should stuff his ears with wax the next time he goes visiting his friends- or he could cut out another piece of himself. He could gouge another hole in his remnants of being. Maybe he’ll actually get it out this time, the horrid part of him that still can suffer, that tumor.

  
“Thank you, Wormtail,” he says kindly and gently, “for bringing the menu to my attention. That aside, I would much rather hear of the faculty and the state of the school. Are any of the other teachers shockingly inadequate? Are there whimsical ghosts or pests that distract the students from learning? The poltergeist, for instance. What on earth is the point of keeping that thing around?”

  
“Forgive me, master,” Wormtail pleads tearfully, still wheezing with pain, “but I was always a rat when I was there last- and I always stayed with the Weasley boy. I never thought to evaluate the teaching!”

  
Voldemort waves one hand dismissively, having already lost interest in Wormtail’s input. He conjures parchment and a quill, spelling them to make notes in the air beside him. Fixing up Hogwarts is actually an absorbing diversion and soon his scroll is covered in writing. It will take several years but he is certain he can make it the fine institution it deserves to be. When Meissa attends, she will feel only pride at what her ancestor created.

  
Since that line of thought reminds him of the Lestranges however, he quickly dismisses it. Both daughters and families make for perilous daydreams. Logistics are enough for now.

  
“Right then,” he murmurs. “When the world is in such dire need of my care, why should I delay? Collect the current Muggle Studies professor, Wormtail. You can manage that much, I should think. She can be our guest at the next meeting. I’m certain our friends will be delighted by my new plans to improve society.”

  
“Yes, master, yes,” Wormtail whimpers, crawling on his knees out of the room. “I shall attend to it at once.”

 

o0O0o

 

When he first set foot in Hogwarts, he could scarcely wrap his mind around the idea that such finery was meant for him. The food was plentiful and delicious. The furnishings in the dormitories were sturdy and unbroken, from polished woods to velvet curtains. The second-hand robes he had purchased with school-provided funds seemed like attire for kings. For one, they actually fit him. For another, they weren’t thread-bare and full of holes.

  
He had known he deserved more. His rapidly strengthening abilities assured him that he could _obtain_ more. He’d spent his entire tenth year of life trying to pick the best ways to use his power to his advantage. He’d thought of muggle money and buying a house in the country, somewhere quiet. Perhaps if he just found someone rich enough, he could force them to adopt him and take him away. Those plans seemed pointless now. Hogwarts was an enormous pile of resources, luxuries and opportunities falling on his head so suddenly he was buried in it. He tried to absorb information quickly and regain his bearings; instead, he ended up dazed.

  
The other Slytherins in his year refused to speak to him, look at him or be anywhere near him. This was apparently because Riddle was not a known Wizarding family; they called him ‘Mudblood’. Tom did not find this unusual in the slightest. Mudblood was not remotely the worst thing he’d been called. It did not even make the cut for worst ten. Moving from a hellish trash heap to a lavish castle was disorienting enough anyway. Had his peers welcomed him with open arms, he might have lost his wits and attacked them.

  
His life thus far had taught him that other children were best kept at arms-length. They were avoiding him for the moment. Sooner or later however, they would try to bully him. He would retaliate mercilessly and then they would fearfully retreat. The process might repeat a few times before the message sunk in. Tom was prepared for it. The only difference now was that the other children had magic too and Hogwarts upheld stricter rules. Some of the teachers, like the Transfigurations Professor, Dumbledore, had eerie ways of knowing things. Tom would have to be very careful about what he did until he learned how to safeguard his thoughts. He stayed up late that first night, brainstorming ideas that would make his point without getting him expelled.

  
_I am not weak._

  
The start of classes however made it difficult to worry about anything. The subject matter was fascinating. It was engaging, riveting and freely available. Tom had never dreamed someone would _teach_ him magical secrets. He’d simply assumed he would have to practice what he already knew and develop his own methods. His textbooks were like a cheat sheet for life. His new wand made the hardest of his old tricks effortless. The library was irresistible.

  
Tom had an inkling that his professors were providing him with what was essentially his heart’s desire. They were also his ticket to staying. Thus, he did his best to win their good graces. He was unaccustomed to smiling and being polite all day long; still he tailored himself to the role as well as he could. He wasn't about to make another bad impression, like he had with Dumbledore. Most of the other first year students hadn’t finished their year’s reading list before the start of term. Answering questions in Charms, Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts was effortless. It was a rare day that he did not earn twenty points for Slytherin. When he was not attending class, he was shut in the library. He read for hours, cutting his meals short for more time. He began with broad overviews of the Wizarding World before slowly narrowing it down to areas of immediate interest. The possibilities were simply endless.

  
He had never been so happy in his life. Until now, his best idea of ‘happiness’ meant having a full stomach and a moderate amount of solitude.

  
Confrontation was inevitable, of course. It happened during study hall a day before the DADA quiz. Tom was sitting at a long, wooden table well apart from his fellow Slytherins. He had his Defense books spread out before him but he was reading about bloodline abilities. He’d already memorized every possible question the quiz could have. After twenty minutes of study, one of the Slytherin boys- Avery- called out to him.

  
“Riddle!” the fair-haired boy hissed over the scratching of quills. “It’s Riddle, isn’t it? I’m so sorry to trouble you but could you sit just a _bit_ farther away? Your stink is muddying up our air.”

  
A chorus of chortles rose from the Slytherins sitting around him.

  
Tom turned to look at him, considering his peer’s false, apologetic smile. Honestly, for insults, it was rather well done. Tom was used to cheap name-calling; this was a layered satire. Young witches and wizards just couldn’t be compared to muggle orphans. That did not mean Tom was going to let it slide. He returned Avery’s gaze with a blank expression.

  
“Why don’t you cast a Bubblehead Charm then?” he suggested quietly. “Surely an upstanding…was the term ‘pureblood wizard’? shouldn’t need to ask me for a favor.”

  
The suggestion itself was a trap. Bubblehead Charms were categorized as advanced magic, spells a first year student hadn’t a hope of pulling off. By acting as if he didn’t realize the difficulty of the charm, Tom aimed to force Avery into admitting he couldn’t cast it. As it turned out however, Avery didn’t read as much as Tom did- and consecutively, didn’t even know what a Bubblehead Charm was.

  
Avery sneered at Tom‘s comeback, his false civility melting into malice. “And just how would conjuring a bunch of bubbles, _filth_ , reduce how much _you_ reek?”

  
Across the table from him, Alphard Black snorted. “ _Dunce_. Bubblehead Charms are NEWT level spells that create a bubble of clean air around your mouth and nose. The Mudblood knows that and you don’t?”

  
The other Slytherins sitting around them snickered.

  
“Shut it, Black,” Avery snapped, scowling at him. “It’s bad enough that we have trash for a roommate without you being insufferable on top of it.”

  
“No, please don’t argue with each other on my account,” Tom said, tapping his finger once to make all his books stack neatly together. “I’m perfectly happy to move. You see, while your friends may not mind the stench of _ignorance_ and _idiocy_ , I detest it.”

  
The Slytherins began snickering again. It was a competitive house. While they stuck together against outside challenges, no individual within the house was unhappy to see a peer taken down a notch. In fact, it was premium entertainment.

  
Avery, on the other hand, lost his temper. He swung himself off of the bench and rose to his feet. This move was less of a surprise to Tom than that first, elegant jibe. He had seen it a hundred times. Magic or no magic, violent intent looked the same in anyone’s eyes. Avery drew his wand and Tom acted on reflex.

  
In that moment, a red bolt of light shot across the room. Tom’s book, An Overview of Defense, rose upward just as rapidly, intercepting its path. The book and the jinx collided spectacularly, emitting smoke and sparks. Shouts of alarm sounded around the study hall, students from other houses taking note. Shreds of paper rained down over the space between Avery and Tom.  Avery's spell fizzled and dissipated. By this time, of course, Tom had stood, drawn his wand and uttered a spell of his own.

  
The simple jinx caught Avery in the middle of his chest and flung him bodily across the study hall. Avery spun once in the air and landed hard. His wand clattered out of his hand, his limbs sprawled out around him. The effect was actually more powerful than Tom had expected. He supposed it only proved his point better. The sooner his peers learned to fear him, the sooner they would leave him alone. He had a whole library to get through, after all.

  
A boy with dusky skin and a hawkish face was now watching Tom keenly from beside Black.

  
“What’s this?” a firm voice called. A moment later, Professor Merrythought came striding in. He took in the scene with alarm.

  
“Professor,” Avery said quickly, his voice rasping slightly as he struggled to sit up. “That Riddle boy hexed me!”

  
Merrythought frowned, glancing over to Tom.

  
“It was self-defense,” Tom stated, widening his eyes for the sake of seeming earnest.

  
“He’s lying!” Avery said quickly. “He attacked me first!”

  
Merrythought gave a small sigh and glanced over the room. “Can anyone tell me what actually happened?”

  
The students from the other houses gave him perplexed looks and shrugs. Most of them were still holding quills and half-buried in their textbooks. One of the Gryffindors said, “those Slytherin nutters just went batty and started hexing each other! How should we know?”

  
“Avery attacked first,” a voice spoke up suddenly.

  
Merrythought turned his head, gaze fixing on the hawkish boy beside Black. “Is that so, Mr. Lestrange?” the professor prompted.

  
“Yes,” Lestrange said shortly. He didn’t seem inclined to say much else. Instead, he flipped a page in his book and went back to reading. Black scoffed at Avery and did the same. The fair-haired boy sneered at them both.

  
“Well, then!” Merrythought concluded with a gusty sigh. “Detention, Mr. Avery. Everyone else, back to studying, please!”

  
Avery shot Tom a murderous look and went back to his seat.

  
Merrythought glanced down at the smoldering fragments of Tom’s textbook. “Irreparable,” he pronounced blandly. “Might I suggest using a shield charm to block next time, Mr. Riddle? They’re less untidy and since you needn’t replace them, less expensive. You may use one of the classroom books until you have ordered a new copy. Don’t be long though.”

  
This was something of a problem. Tom did not, in fact, have enough money to buy a replacement.

  
“Oh, sir,” he said quickly, “but I have already read it start to finish. Why must I replace it?”

  
“Memorized it too, have you?” Merrythought countered. “Then you can tell me what Swiftetric says about predicting an attacker’s movements.”

  
“‘The most telling clues concerning thy opponent’s next attack’,” Tom quoted, “‘lie in the direction of his gaze, betraying his target, the movement of his arm, betraying his timing, and the verbal incantation. In such duels between wizards, a spell spoken lends a split second warning during which the target might parry.’”

  
Merrythought’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

  
“Personally, sir,” Tom continued flatly, “I think there is a lot more information to be gleaned than that. If you already know what sort of person your opponent is, for example, you can anticipate a vast amount of what they will do- and not just in combat.”

  
“Merlin, Riddle, you’ve already read through chapter sixteen?” Merrythought marveled, still hung up on Tom’s recitation. “Well, then. Maybe you did read the entire book. I suppose I won’t insist on you buying a new copy. Still, it’s on you if you end up wishing you had one later.”

  
The only situation in which Tom might need another DADA textbook was if Avery decided to attack him again. It would have to happen soon though because Tom had already decided to master a shield charm this very week. Merrythought was correct; for protection, magic was clearly superior to parchment.

  
As Merrythought wandered off to chastise some Gryffindors, Tom turned to different musings. Why had Lestrange bothered to speak up for him? That wasn‘t what people did; people looked out for themselves. Did Lestrange expect some kind of repayment? To be honest, Tom had been hoping his high performance in class so far would win him Merrythought’s preference over Avery. If worse came to worse, he’d been prepared to suffer through a detention and get back at Avery later. Thanks to Lestrange, it all had gone smoothly.

  
He shook his head, returning to his book on bloodline abilities. He was not exactly certain how to react.

  
The rest of the study session went by without event. As Tom was leaving however, a hand grabbed his shoulder and steered him out into the hall. He looked up to see his potions teacher, Professor Slughorn, guiding him from the flow of students.

  
“Wonderful jinx in there,” the potions teacher praised him, regarding Tom from over a bushy walrus mustache. “A first year with quick reflexes, and a muggle-born no less! Quite the show.”

  
“You were watching, sir?”

  
“I was looking in from the doorway,” Slughorn smiled. “I like to stay apprised of things.” He glanced over Tom’s head, scanning once around the corridor before leaning closer. “Riddle, isn’t it?”

  
“Yes, sir,” Tom replied, trying to conceal his instinctive wariness and instead appear pleased. He had learned to deal with the professors delicately.

  
“I don’t usually see muggle-borns take to the Wizarding World quickly,” Slughorn mused. The way he eyed Tom was speculative, as if he was still making up his mind. “You’ve been here only a few weeks though and you’re already showing up the pureblood heirs in your house. Effortlessly, even. A sharp wit, a wandless reflex, an effective hex. It’s as if you’ve been using magic for years.”

  
“Well, I have, sir,” Tom shrugged. “I didn’t realize that I would be invited to a Wizarding school so I attempted to develop my abilities as soon as they appeared.”

  
“Without a wand!” Slughorn chuckled, taken aback.

  
“I didn’t realize there was such a thing as wands, sir,” Tom told him quietly.

  
Slughorn shook his head. “What a marvel. You make it sound like common sense- yet even the children in our oldest families don’t think to do it. I hope you impress me more as the term progresses.” He paused then sighed. “Well, if you managed to impress young master Lestrange of all people, I suppose…” He leaned closer, a gleam in his eye. “Listen, Mr. Riddle. I’ve decided to give you a tip. You’re a bit of a loner, aren’t you?”

  
“The other Slytherins have made it clear they want nothing to do with me,” Tom replied blandly. His tone was nonchalant but he was, in fact, paying close attention. Slughorn was his Head of House. Getting his attention and his advice was clearly a good thing.

  
“That seems to be changing though, doesn’t it?” Slughorn pointed out. “Unparalleled talent does that, you see. It catches people’s attention. It lures people in. If you really are the unexpected prodigy you seem to be, Riddle, even the haughtiest of them will want things from you. Homework help. Favors. Advice.” He made a dismissive gesture with one porky hand. “Admittedly, some will still keep their distance. Family name holds great weight.”

  
“Isn’t that a good thing, sir?” Tom inquired. “If they leave me alone, I can concentrate on my studies.”

  
“Riddle, Riddle,” Slughorn exclaimed with dismay. “Can you really think of no advantage to having favor with rich, influential people? That’s what your Slytherin classmates are, you know. They’re the heirs to the oldest and wealthiest families of our world. To you, they should be resources.”

  
Tom blinked, processing that. “Then…if I impress them, I’ll become their friends…and then…”

  
“Slytherins don’t have friends, boy,” Slughorn said frankly, “they have allies. And yes. You need allies.”

  
Tom thought it over, his brow furrowed. It _did_ make sense. Treating the students here the same as he had the orphans might have been an oversight. Orphans possessed nothing. According to Slughorn however, the other Slytherin students could provide endless opportunities.

  
‘Allies’ sounded fine too. Tom could work with ‘making allies’. It was the senseless, alien concept of friendship that left him perplexed.

  
“Start with Rabastan Lestrange,” Slughorn advised, glancing around the hall conspiratorially. “If there’s a family that cares for absolutely nothing but pure, magical power, it’s Lestrange. He’ll be the one willing to associate with a muggle-born, provided you can render him awestruck. Unsociable though his family is, yes, he’ll be drawn to a wizard who _breathes_ magic. So tell me...can you do that, Riddle?”

All together, it was invaluable advice. He'd suspected at the time but only in hindsight did he realize just how very much. He owes Slughorn for that- to this day.

  
Tom met the Potions professor's eyes directly and smiled. “I will do my best, sir.”

 

o0O0o

 

Voldemort returns to Malfoy Manor in a much better state of mind than he left it in. Attaining physical distance allowed for mental distance, enough even for him bend his own perceptions defensively. From a purely objective standpoint, he needs the Lestranges; they are his lieutenants, his seconds-in-command and the driving force of his military strength. From a personal standpoint too, he will admit, that one way or another he will return to them. Humanity is too worthless. The world is too gray. He covets their singular quality, their vibrancy and their devotion to him.

  
That said, he needn’t let it affect him. He can insulate himself in pragmatism. He can use their company as self-maintenance that improves his own functionality. He forces his brain to perceive them this way- as luxuries, as _objects_.

  
Bella, Rod and Bastan are three more in his collection of treasures. They’re priceless little vessels to store feelings in. He will not think of things like ‘family’ again.

  
It is the evening before his Death Eaters will meet and make important decisions regarding Harry Potter. He materializes in the manor entrance hall with neither sound nor ceremony, taking in the quiet house.

  
He senses many people down in the cellar, their thoughts a knotted storm of fear. In the main house, he hears three: Draco, Narcissa and more quietly, Lucius. The Lestranges are there too. Voldemort only knows this, however, because Narcissa is currently vexed with them.

  
First and foremost, Lucius is very ill. For the initial couple of days after his return home, he was completely unresponsive. Now that he has begun to speak, he chokes on his words, flinches at the slightest movement and frequently breaks down weeping. This is on top of him being fairly underweight and malnourished. Cissy is placed in the position of caring for him while crushing all of her instinctive reactions. Being furious about Lucius’s condition- with the Dark Lord, the Ministry or the world- will avail her nothing. Similarly, being hounded by fear for Draco will not protect her son. Instead, she has maintained a façade of icy, soft-spoken calm.

  
She feels entitled to help from her extended family.

  
Rodolphus, however, has apparently been full of extremely unhelpful advice. “Just use a silencing charm, Cissy. He won’t wake up screaming anymore after about four months.”

  
And from Rabastan, “Why so sickly, Lucius? We should celebrate! The Dark Lord was planning to leave you in there for another thirteen years!”

  
Bellatrix, the only one who cares enough to be useful, picked now of all weeks to fall apart. Instead of helping Cissy make potions for Lucius, she has been draping herself over a divan and weeping hysterically. Apparently, she is devastated because the Dark Lord left to stay somewhere else. She cries, shakes and gets upset enough to make herself sick. Rodolphus and Rabastan have no end of patience when it comes to vanishing the vomit and waiting on her like footmen- which would be sweet if they weren’t ignoring their half-dead brother-in-law. As it stands, their coddling is saccharine and Bella’s misery is a hairsbreadth from being a tantrum.

  
She saw the Dark Lord _not five days ago_. Despite this, the witch who can best any auror, consistently bounces back from torture and came out of Azkaban coherent, is reduced to a sobbing mess.

  
Cissy doesn’t have time to deal with Bella’s random breakdowns. She certainly isn’t sad to see the Dark Lord go. Approving her husband’s release and then vanishing is the most marvelous thing he has done since his revival. Perhaps if he stays away, she can actually devise a plan for her family’s return to favor. Living in constant fear for her terribly vulnerable son is beyond harrowing.

  
It’s also new.

  
Cissy has lived through ruin and responded with fury. She has endured emptiness, neglect and defeat. Until the birth of her son, she treated all hardships with biting ice. Now she loves something tender, something fragile- precious and fleeting as a snowflake in her palm. After fifteen years of keeping him safe, she faces losing him to a world of flames.

  
Draco thinks he has to be strong to protect her. She doesn’t tell him that while he is a lamb, _she_ is a Black.

  
So she has given up on her sister. She is caring for her nearly comatose husband herself. She schools Draco each day in a steady, quiet voice- when to stay silent, when he must speak and what he should say at those times. When she is by herself, she thinks and she thinks, sidestepping fear. How can she divert attention from Draco? How can she get him removed from fighting ranks? She scrounges for schemes to win the Dark Lord’s good opinion- for she is certain, her family is only still alive because the Lestranges maintain favor.

  
Draco did not convince the Dark Lord to release Lucius; Bellatrix did.

  
Lucius, even returned, can no longer be the partner he has always been. His eyes barely focus. He doesn’t wish to eat. He never stops shuddering, even when Cissy embraces him. She must protect him too.

  
Feeling utterly alone and outmatched is another thing Cissy shuts out.

  
Voldemort briefly wonders about the thoughts he has just stolen. Apparently Bellatrix hasn’t told Narcissa of her pregnancy. He doesn’t blame the younger sister for not noticing. Narcissa has a lot of other things to think about. Lucius is, after all, completely useless at the moment. Were the Lestranges in so bad a state after Voldemort first broke them out? He can scarcely remember now. By the time they were asking him for a child, they were able to communicate intelligibly.

  
He investigates Draco’s state of mind next but finds it largely unchanged. Draco is horrified by the damage that has been done to his father. At the same time, he is simply relieved to have taken Lucius out of that place. Even this, even living in constant terror at the cold-blooded whims of the Dark Lord, is better. Draco wasn't quite sure before; then he stepped foot inside Azkaban and he knew. There is nothing worse than that place.

  
Lucius, for his part, is occluding sporadically. He attempts to stabilize himself by shutting down his thoughts, minimizing his sense of self. His silver-tongue is tarnished and his sleekness is all gone. Denied his best defenses, he can only grasp after control. Little bursts of emotion escape his shields now and then- nightmares of torment inflicted on Draco and Narcissa whilst he could not protect them, dread of a nameless fate. Then he closes himself in again and his mind becomes unreadable.

  
Voldemort feels no pity. In fact, he feels disdain. All of this happened to Lucius because Lucius failed to successfully take a crystal sphere from a group of children. This being, of course, after Voldemort _guided_ Harry Potter step-by-step into a trap. The Department of Mysteries should have been an easy win. He will certainly never put a social manipulator in charge of a combat operation ever again.

  
Lucius does not deserve to be here. He is only here because Voldemort did not care enough to prolong his suffering. Voldemort’s indifference to Lucius is indulgence for Bellatrix- but even that doesn’t matter. The world is not fair and it doesn’t need to be. Some people will always slither out of getting what they deserve.

  
It is Wormtail’s arrival that brings Voldemort’s solitary musings to an end. The animagus apparates directly into the entrance hall, dropping an unconscious witch in the process. The witch, who Voldemort distantly recognizes as Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher, topples onto the floor.

  
Wormtail, having apparently fixed his leg since he saw Voldemort last, brushes himself off with an irritable expression. Then he sees Voldemort and freezes. He quickly drops into a bow.

  
“Master,” he says in a oily, unctuous voice. “You’re here already, how delightful- as you can see, I was successful in capturing the mudblood professor.”

  
“Well done, Wormtail,” Voldemort praises quietly. “You are a superlative errand boy. Now go take her to the cellar where she won’t dirty Narcissa’s marble. You can mind the other prisoners while you’re there. Make sure they remain docile.”

  
Wormtail barely succeeds in hiding his grimace. Voldemort can practically hear the complaints on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps it will take more than a broken leg to teach the rat his place. Wormtail bows after a moment however and levitates his captive. Just then, people appear on the landing above the hall.

  
Narcissa and the Lestranges apparently heard the sound of apparating and came to investigate. Wormtail glances up at them with a resentful sneer as he trudges off toward the cellar. Not a one of them spares him a glance. Narcissa’s occlumency shields have sprung tightly up around her mind; her mouth is shaped in a false, faintly-pleased smile.

  
The Lestranges, on the other hand, all look delighted. Bastan’s hawkish eyes have warmed completely. Rod is smiling outright. Bella looks so elated that she almost glows, a fiery joy infusing her skin. They also seem to have been out fighting recently because Voldemort can see a few splatters of blood on them.

  
Voldemort returns their gaze calmly, watching them through the mental filters he has so painstakingly constructed. He can enjoy them without concern whenever he has a mind to. None of it matters. He inclines his head.

  
“Hello, my friends,” he says- and it’s a normal evening.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes all of five minutes to confer with the Lestranges on Narcissa’s marble stairwell. The lady of the house herself left to ensure that Lucius is presentable. Now Voldemort is alone with his favorite friends. He simply turns to them in the empty hall and says,

  
“You haven’t told her?”

  
Bella forces her eyes to stop running covetously over his face and dons a guileless expression. “So long as it remains possible to conceal,” she explains, “we thought we should keep it to ourselves. This is, after all, your secret as much as ours, master. We treat it like any of the secrets you entrust to us…”

  
Did she look so pretty the last time he saw her? Did that bright, burning darkness of her eyes express itself so vividly? A week’s absence has done nothing to lessen her appeal. The very moment his eyes fall on her, it seems, he finds himself wanting to bury his fingers in her hair, draw her close. There is no reason not to, of course; it is a meaningless whim. He is no longer prey to those wretched and strange poisons of debilitating warmth. The emptiness of his past can be cut out. His old wishes can be ground into powder. If he touches her now, it is merely for the enjoyment of it.

  
So that’s what he does. He reaches out. He lays his hand on the side of her face. He tangles his fingers into her hair and tugs her forward against his chest. He hears the hitch of her breath and feels a full-body shudder run through her. Over the top of her head, he sees Bastan and Rod’s faces instantly light. They are closer to him now as well, closer perhaps than they would usually dare to stand.

  
He does not reprimand them; their assumptions of intimacy do not color his perceptions. Instead, he plays to their hopes and speaks warmly.

  
“Hiding your condition from your sister must wear on you, Bella,” he infers, relishing the softness of her hair and his winding grip on it. “Narcissa is a mother herself. Won’t she notice the symptoms?”

  
“She’s…” Bella’s voice rasps, falling close to his dead heart. “She’s distracted…with other things. Eventually perhaps.”

  
“So long as we keep her annoyed and resentful,” Rod murmurs, “she’s not likely to notice a thing.”

  
“There shouldn’t be any need for it though,” Voldemort muses. “Narcissa is family, after all…wouldn’t you say, Bella? Don’t sisters find comfort in sharing their sorrows and joys with each other?”

  
“Yes, of course, master,” she affirms after a beat. “With your permission?” The delay in her words betrays her distraction. She is trying to remain calm. He still feels her leaning into him, face pressed longingly against his chest.

  
“I think we should tell them,” he says. “It’s such _happy_ news. Perhaps it will even liven Lucius up a bit, after all of his suffering.”

  
He is not remotely concerned with Lucius’s suffering or how lively Lucius is after the fact. Lucius could waste away and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. The Lestranges don’t notice his lack of sincerity however, all giving hums or nods of agreement. They are smiling widely. They are clearly not thinking much about Lucius either.

  
He makes a note in his brain to be careful of them. Rod and Bastan are static, logic subtly weaving their long and patient plan. Bella is spontaneous and impulsive; she always has been. She enables this plan of the brothers’, adds to it, ignites it. Her intelligence is tactical so even when she acts quickly, she reacts nearly so fast. Now however, that better judgement of hers is waning. The fear that tempered her impulses is becoming weak. Her condition sways her in emotion’s favor. The single most important thing that Voldemort has always known about Bella is more relevant than ever:

  
He cannot control her with words when she is not capable of controlling herself.

  
As a mastermind enacting a hostile takeover of Wizarding Society, his strategies contain many delicate and precise elements. Bella is one of his strongest weapons. If he is to unleash her on the world whilst she is in this state, it must be in situations where collateral damage is irrelevant. Indeed, he must be careful with the brothers too; their better judgement is and always has been sabotaged by their preference to follow.

  
It’s fine when they are following his directives. He takes only calculated risks. Unfortunately, they follow Bellatrix too. She could walk laughing through the veil of death and they would walk right after her.

  
Voldemort releases the witch, turning to finish his ascent up the stairs. Managing people is so trying. It doesn’t really matter when they’re expendable. In the Lestranges’ case though, he almost wants to put them in a box, locked twenty times and hidden in a secret place. He almost wants to wear them around his neck on a golden chain. Death could never touch them that way. Perhaps he should cut their souls in half after all, seal them inside some ancient treasure…

  
It is so easy to lose himself in thought.

  
His feet have traced the hallways of the manor. The rooms have yielded and changed, replaced with the lavish sitting room. The piano Bellatrix likes to play is in the corner, faded chords spilling out of its depths. It is resonating with her magic, awakened by her approach. Every object she spends time with develops a personality of its own.

  
Narcissa is seated on the divan’s edge, whispering in Lucius’s ear where he sits beside her. Draco stands behind them tensely. When Voldemort enters the room, Narcissa rises and helps Lucius to his feet. Lucius bows to Voldemort; Narcissa curtsies.

  
The Lestranges filter into the room behind their master, silent and watching.

  
“Lucius,” Voldemort greets quietly.

  
Lucius sinks shakily to one knee. “My lord,” he says. His once rich voice is now hollow and threadbare, faltering at every wrong moment. His eyes are wide as he stares at the floor. “Thank you for your mercy to me and my family. I will do everything in my power not to fail you again. I will accept any punishment you deem fit. Please, let me serve you once more.”

  
Voldemort looks down at him for a moment. It’s funny to see just how much Lucius relied upon his luster. Without it, he is worthless and dull- gilded lead without the gilding. Voldemort remembers him differently, back before the fall. Andromeda cast the Blacks into disarray, shaming the family’s name. Lucius and Narcissa’s betrothal was broken by Abraxas. Furious and desperate, Bellatrix and Lucius joined forces and accomplished utterly breathtaking things.

  
Voldemort was enamored with their successes, their talent and their competency. These were the students of his dreams, hand-picked and perfect. They achieved results that no one else could with tactics simultaneously brutal and sleek. They earned favor quickly and Voldemort interceded with Abraxas on Narcissa’s behalf. Then Bellatrix and Lucius surpassed even their own triumphs, weaving other Death Eaters into their partnership and wreaking terror on the Wizarding World.

  
Doubtless, Bella could not have succeeded without Lucius’s help. Lucius, however, always reaped the most from the littlest contribution. If he lent thirty percent, he made it seem like fifty. That was Voldemort’s error, it seems. He was too elated to measure the exact worth of each. He rewarded them equally- a piece of his soul, a place by his side and the reverence of all their peers.

  
If those fourteen years of tragedy are worth anything, at least they’ve made clear where everyone stands.

  
“There will be no punishment,” Voldemort informs Lucius. “Your son has toiled in your place while you were away. He will continue to do so. Perhaps the two of you together can meet my lowered expectations.”

  
“Of course, master,” Lucius breathes, ashen-faced, “thank you.”

  
Draco looks down at the floor.

  
“Sit now, Lucius,” Voldemort murmurs, turning to pace across the room. “All of you, sit. Bella and the brothers have news for you.”

  
He stages the situation with himself on the outskirts, lurking at the edges of the room. The two halves of this family fill the center, one happily warm and one fearfully wary. The contrast between them is like night and day, just like the sisters who bind them together.

  
Fair Narcissa is spite wrapped in ice. Dark Bellatrix threatens to burn right out of her skin; flesh is too fragile a container for her incandescent vivacity.

  
There is still these blood ties between them however. It’s odd to consider. Narcissa will be Meissa’s aunt, Lucius, her uncle and Draco, her cousin. Will they throw birthday parties in this enormous house with music and laughing? Will they all gather together at Christmas, exchanging presents?

  
Voldemort has no idea what that sort of thing is like. Still, he thinks, it is right for Meissa to have it.

  
Bella leans forward slightly, her eyes dancing. “We’re going to have a baby,” she tells her family. Then she beams, glances back at Rod and he wraps her in the circle of his arm.

  
Lucius and Draco only stare at them blankly. Draco, perhaps, has no idea what to do when his aunt says something wholesome. Lucius would usually know that the correct response is to smile and say ‘congratulations’. Currently, it seems, he is too useless for even the most basic of social exchanges.

  
It’s Narcissa who responds. She tilts her head to one side, both realization and a sharp note of question in her gaze. “Oh…that’s wonderful, Bella,” she says very slowly, “but didn’t you decide not to try it? What with Rod’s medical test…”

  
That’s where Rabastan steps in- not to defend his family health but to negate the idea his brother would even _chance_ creating a squib.

  
“As our reward for enduring Azkaban,” he explains without preamble, “the Dark Lord agreed to be a surrogate father. Bella’s child is his.”

  
Voldemort stands on the other side of the shadowed room but he studies Narcissa’s reaction closely. She is good at hiding her true feelings. Her expressions are all a mask. This one piece of information however imbalances her. For a split second, she is shaken to the core. Her face goes blank like her son’s and her husband’s. Then quickly, she smiles. She rises from her seat and with a high laugh, goes to embrace her sister.

  
The strain in the air around her is fear.

  
Draco takes his cue from his mother. “That’s wonderful, auntie,” he says, smiling too widely. “Congratulations!”

  
“Congratulations, Bella,” Lucius adds with a nod, “Rod. What an honor.”

  
Voldemort narrows his eyes just slightly then casts a wordless spell. He doubts the Malfoys will notice it. Perhaps months will go by before they realize. His intricate, magical compulsion weaves itself onto their lips and tongues. It seeps through the pores of their skin and ties itself there. It saturates their blood and infuses their beings.

  
The dark spell is a manifestation of his will upon them. They will not be able to speak a word of his child’s existence to those who don’t already know- not even to vaguely imply.

  
It is safer this way. He thinks he would have cast the compulsion even if they had managed to seem genuinely pleased. Trust is innately illogical. Even a person with his or his child’s best interest in mind will not always share his priorities. For everyone, there are a handful of situations or more in which they will betray those closest to them…for whatever reason.

  
The evening continues on with nothing more of note. Voldemort remains with the family during dinner but leaves afterwards to retrieve Nagini. He left her here during his week at the villa. He senses her in the Lestranges’ suite and after a short word in parseltongue, confirms that she has stayed there the entire week.

  
_It’s warmer_ , the snake explains from where she is winding over Rod and Bella’s bed frame. _I am getting hungry though._

  
_“Don’t go hunting tonight,”_ he tells her absently, mentally reviewing his plans. _“I have something tasty for you to eat tomorrow evening.”_

  
_I don’t want another peacock._

  
_“Bigger than a peacock, insatiable one,”_ he mocks her. Then he gathers her onto his shoulders and leaves.

  
He sees Rodolphus and Rabastan off the next morning. When their presence is not absolutely essential, he lets them opt out of large meetings. Their avoidance of strangers, acquaintances and anyone they don’t like has been a lifelong constant. Both Rod and Bastan would rather fight a dozen aurors than cordially interact with their peers. Bella is their default stand-in. She usually delivers Rod and Bastan’s reports at meetings right after her own.

  
“Remind me what you’re doing tonight, Rod,” he says, leaning against the door frame of the manor. The day outside has dawned cold and gray, despite the summer season. It must be from all the dementors he has let loose on the world.

  
“I am checking in with our recruiters,” Rod explains, turning his skull mask over in his hands. “They just rounded up a batch of sixty viable people- willing and able. I’ll review the process they’re using and try to root out some of the typical incompetence. Then I will do a preliminary scan of the recruits. It will be less trouble for you, master, if a half-way decent legilimens has already exposed the most obvious spies.”

  
“You are more than half-way decent,” Voldemort dismisses, smiling. “And you, Bastan?”

  
“I’m taking a small team hunting,” Bastan says- and of course. It’s very like him to choose what he does best. Soon Voldemort will organize teams to round up the malcontents of his new society. Until then, Bastan can handle the more troublesome targets.

  
“Rebels or turncoats?” Voldemort wonders.

  
“Two of the second,” Bastan answers, “and as many of the first as possible.”

  
Voldemort claps him on the shoulder, nodding in the feeble dawn. “Then I wish you good hunting, my friend.”

  
“Master,” Rodolphus speaks up quickly, stepping slightly closer. “We are likely to be gone a few days, perhaps even a week. There are many tasks that must be completed for the sake of your cause.”

  
“Make sure you return by next week,” Voldemort warns.

  
“Of course,” the younger brother assures him. He pauses. “My wife,” he says then. “She is always strong when strength is needed. Still, her condition makes solitude difficult. With Cissy and Draco nursing Lucius back to health, I worry she’ll be left alone. She will likely grow pensive at night. If you have the time, master, won’t you visit her?”

  
Now Bella is being advertised by her own husband. Despite having understood the brothers’ intentions, Voldemort is nonplussed. Is this sort of thing supposed to happen?

  
“Of course, Rod,” he says ambiguously nonetheless, “if I have time.”

 

o0O0o

 

Thinking about it still feels strange. He dropped something vital all those years ago; then he forgot. Death is a distracting thing. Running ragged past the limits of exhaustion leaves little room for regret. If he strained beyond every shred of himself, he could not be troubled to remember what he had sacrificed. His mind remained intact. His logic slowly righted itself, seized nearby resources and aligned them into strategy. He eventually succeeded and returned to where he once was. What does a cut out piece matter now?

  
He never says it out loud. It would distress and upset his followers. Were he not so distanced from himself, it would likely distress and upset him- that thing he lost, that accident from seventeen years past.

  
Voldemort _is_ Harry Potter.

  
He has known this since the moment he paused to examine it. He is Harry Potter as much as he is Nagini, as much as he is the rest of his horcruxes. He did not create this bond deliberately but he has used it to his advantage nonetheless. He sent the boy dreams in the dark of night. He used that brittle fragment of himself to lure the boy to his death. Despite taking the bait, Harry Potter still managed to live.

  
Sometimes, Voldemort wonders if he isn’t fighting his own mad tenacity for survival.

  
The regrettable truth remains, however unspoken. He has tried to kill Harry Potter many times. Excepting that first, ill-fated encounter, each attempt was an act of self-mutilation.

  
It’s fitting. If someone told sixteen year-old Tom Riddle that Death would hunt him with his own soul, that boy would say, “of course.” Perhaps he would even stop spelling the skin from his face, flaying off his father’s likeness. Perhaps he would even laugh.

  
Voldemort had a troubled youth but he is better now. He doesn’t feel so dirty as he used to, so violently furious and imbalanced. The persona he invented to replace his sullied one has been actualized. The stains are still there and the scars remain. He feels calmer now however. He can do…such unparalleled things. His achievements validate his worth.

  
When Voldemort seats himself in the Malfoy’s drawing room that evening, this knowledge is vivid in his mind. His Death Eaters come. Charity Burbage floats sluggishly several feet above the table’s surface. Voldemort places his hands together in a steeple and stares at the ceiling. Now he and his associates will discuss the most effective way for him to murder himself.

  
Anything that hinders him must be destroyed.

 

o0O0o

 

He does not think about Bella during the meeting. Voldemort barely spares her a thought, even while mocking her family and instructing her to slay her niece. He decided days ago upon hearing of Nymphadora’s wedding to do this exact thing in this exact way. It’s part of his checklist for the evening. Taunting the Malfoys makes their standing clear. Challenging Bella provides the adversity she needs in order to accept reality. Now he can treat her as sweetly as he chooses; her world won’t be perfect until Nymphadora Lupin is dead. Consecutively, she is unlikely to experience any more relapses.

  
She chose to sit with her sister today instead of in her usual place at his left. Does she think she can frighten away those among the Death Eaters who would jump on the Malfoys’ weakness? If so, her plan looks to have failed as the meeting ends. Voldemort tastes violence in the air. His followers are nothing if not opportunists. When those who have dominated the group for so long stumble, weaker members will invariably seize the chance.

  
Voldemort does not plan to help Bellatrix deal with this. Neither does he intend to save whoever foolishly attacks her.

  
Fortunately, removing himself from the proceedings is effortless. As the Death Eaters stand and separate into smaller groups, Severus approaches him.

  
“Master,” the spy says quietly, inclining his head. “Forgive my boldness but I’ve heard your disposal of Burbage tonight means you have decided to personally oversee matters in the school. As beneficial as her absence will be to Hogwarts, there are a great many other issues with the institution. If the rumors are correct, I can only feel tremendous enthusiasm for the idea.”

  
Voldemort gestures for Severus to follow him and they walk some paces away from the table. There is already an argument brewing on the other side of the room. Dolohov has a rough grip on Draco’s upper arm, his expression predatory. Crabbe and Goyle loom ominously behind him, squinty eyes assessing Lucius’s wretched, wandless state. Bella is speaking to them, close to her nephew and angled in front of her sister. Her hand rests lightly upon her wand. The subtle breathlessness in her voice is a prequel to bloodshed.

  
“You’ve heard correctly, Severus,” Voldemort affirms. “From Wormtail, perhaps? The school is of great importance to our society for many reasons. When we send young witches and wizards out into the world, we want them to be liberated from the misconceptions Dumbledore beguiled them with. Perhaps some will prefer his sweet lies to the brutality of truth. We must educate them carefully.”

  
“I couldn‘t agree more,” says Severus.

  
The argument on the other side of the room has become a fight. There is a crash as the first spell flies, another as it ricochets off a gleaming shield. Voldemort does not so much as blink, even as the other Death Eaters in the room back away and watch. Like his master, Severus does not react. They stand in the back of the room, calmly continuing their conversation.

  
Not many people catch onto the subtle games Voldemort plays. It makes him appreciate Severus. Despite his complete lack of charm, the potions master is uncommonly intelligent. If his demonstrations of loyalty ever match his competency, his rank will rival the Lestranges’. Voldemort absently lifts a finger, creating an invisible shield; a rebounding hex impacts it then fizzles into nothing. He tilts head quizzically.

  
“Do you have a lingering interest in the school’s affairs?” he wonders. “I was under the impression that you detest teaching.”

  
“Dumbledore never allowed me to teach in an effective manner,” Severus explains, a sneer lurking at his upper lip. “The years I spent in that school opened my eyes to error after error, efficiency sacrificed for the headmaster’s frivolity. Perhaps my interest stems from my past frustration. I would still see the school realize its full potential.”

  
A piercing shriek shakes the room. Bella, Narcissa and Draco- mostly Bella- have bested Dolohov, Goyle and Crabbe. The few others who thought to join in with the three aggressors have quickly backed off. Crabbe and Goyle lie immobilized on the floor. Now Bella is spelling Dolohov’s hand to claw out his own eyes. The shriek came from him, ragged as his face tears beneath his own fingers and he struggles to restrain his arm.

  
“Master!” Dolohov yelps as his nails score his eyelid. “Master, please aid me!”

  
Voldemort glances over and casts a wordless spell. The sounds from the other side of the room shrink to half volume. Then he turns indifferently back to Severus.

  
“I take it you have a request.”

  
“If it would serve your plans, my lord,” Severus returns smoothly. “I wish to maintain a position at the school. I also have many observations concerning the school’s current state. The information will, I believe, help your plans for Hogwarts progress more smoothly.”

  
Dolohov’s screaming sounds like the buzz of a mosquito now. His charmed hand has successfully torn out one of his eyes. Bella is holding the bloodied eye now, bending over Dolohov where she kneels beside him. Voldemort cannot hear her voice; he knows what she says nonetheless as she presses the eyeball to Dolohov’s lips.

  
_“Open your mouth, open your mouth, you fool, let’s see you eat it…”_

  
“I am bringing several people into the school where it is necessary,” Voldemort informs Severus as Dolohov thrashes on the ground. “So far, I have chosen only those with the right temperament to keep order. Your intellect would be far better served in helping me rework the curriculum and the administration. What say you to the role of headmaster?”

  
“My lord, it would be a great honor,” Severus says instantly, never once looking away. “I will do my utmost to shape Hogwarts to your design.”

  
“You will have the position,” Voldemort tells him, “so long as the information you provided tonight about Harry Potter proves accurate.”

  
Severus bows to him in thanks. Then he steps coolly through Voldemort’s shield, over the blood-splattered floor and out of the room. He doesn’t spare the violent scene a second glance. Voldemort dismisses his muting charm idly. Dolohov’s ragged voice fills his ears once more. The senior Death Eater is now gagging and sobbing. His vomit is tinged with blood.

  
Bellatrix, meanwhile, is using the Cruciatus Curse on Crabbe.

  
Voldemort takes a split second to assess her state of mind. Her breathing is quickened, her eyes alight with cruelty. She often has manic fits when she fights; at such times, she does poorly with reason. There is something subdued about her now however. A dull, solemn fury engulfs her where she would usually jubilate. It’s peculiar. It also means he needn’t stop her with magic.

  
“Bella,” he says simply.

  
His voice cuts easily through the screams of Crabbe and the gagging of Dolohov. Bella immediately stops her curse. The room lapses into silence.

  
The Death Eaters watch him intently, waiting for him to punish either Bella or Dolohov.

  
“I believe you all have better things to do than stand aimlessly about,” Voldemort speculates softly. “Am I correct?”

  
A hasty chorus of ‘yes, my lord’ circulates the group. His followers begin to disperse, bowing and leaving the gore-splattered room.

  
“Crabbe, Goyle,” Voldemort says as he turns to leave himself. “Collect Dolohov and his various…pieces…before you go. Staunch the blood flow and he might even survive. I also expect the stains to be gone tomorrow. It’s rude to leave a mess in the house of your host.”

  
“Yes, master,” Goyle mumbles, struggling free of an immobilizing hex. “Right away.”

  
Crabbe, still trembling and crying from Bellatrix’s Cruciatus, does not say anything.

  
Voldemort glances at Bella as he passes by her. The yearning emotion she expressed during the meeting is gone. Instead, her gaze has turned oddly blank. Her lips are slightly parted, like a feral cat after a kill. Once again, he thinks it isn’t like her. She should either be laughing…or she should be angry.

  
Then suddenly, he knows why she has reacted this way. A cold fury envelops him. It seizes him from within, obliterating his distraction. Now why did he put such a troublesome little girl in the background? She is really too much- with her guileless eyes and her pretty, lying mouth.  
He sweeps out of the room. When he is alone in the manor’s dark corridors however, he dissolves himself into smoke. He remains that way, seeping along the wall as shadows.

  
He’ll pretend to be fooled for now. He is going to catch her in the act, even if it takes hours.

  
As it turns out, he is only obliged to wait thirty minutes. Bella takes Draco around the house, casting wards on doors and windows. She ushers Narcissa and Lucius into their room upstairs and Draco to his. Her process is both methodical and energized. Her blood-stained fingers still curl restlessly.

  
Narcissa catches her shoulder before they part, leaning close with a hiss. “Go tonight, Bella,” the younger sister urges. “Don’t wait for the girl to appear with the Order…kill them all in their home. Kill them in the night. Finally put an end to _that whore._ ”

  
“Good night, Cissy,” says Bella distantly.

  
“You did not hesitate to kill Sirius,” Narcissa continues, coaxing, cajoling by the door frame. “But he was not the blood traitor most deserving of death…Think of how the Dark Lord would praise you for it, how highly he’d think of you then…His child shall be born to our family; that’s why he wants our family to be perfect. Like he said tonight, the disease in the tree must needs be cut out. The half-blood chit is not the source of the disease; it’s her mother.”

  
“I will do as _he_ commands,” Bella breathes, turning slightly, eyes hidden by curling locks of her hair. “Won’t I?”

  
Narcissa opens her mouth to say more but Bellatrix has already turned away. The older sister stalks away down the hall, her strides long and her steps silent. Her dark robes billow after her, trailing sleeves and train.

  
Voldemort follows too, indistinguishable from the shades of darkness. He dogs her unknowing footsteps. He hides himself in her shadow.

  
She looks powerful. Her back is straight and her gaze is sharp. She moves without the slightest hesitation. Every bend of her wrist contains coiled, deadly grace. How could Dolohov fail to notice? Bella humbles herself before Voldemort, displaying subservience and longing. For someone to assume she is subservient _in general_ , however, is a laughable misconception. She is not weak. To everyone but the sparse handful of people she loves, she is ruthless, proud and unbreakable. If Voldemort is not with her, her softer sides go unseen. This Bella would never condescend to back down, to second guess herself or to flinch.

  
Even when she should.

  
Her suite, when she arrives, is empty. Rod and Bastan have been gone for hours. Nagini, the immovable resident of this past week, is downstairs digesting a mudblood. Bella lights the lamps with a flick of her wand and goes to the window.

  
Voldemort steals in under the crack of the door like fog. He conceals his insubstantial form in the room’s starkest shadows. He is the black, empty places between yellow pools of light.

  
Bellatrix hurls the window open, shutters banging and diamond panes sliding upward. Her fingers curl on the sill, nails biting mahogany wood. For a long minute, she stares harshly out into the night. Then some of the ferocity seeps from her shoulders. A quiet, resigned sigh leaves her lungs.

  
“Dreadful, dreadful,” she murmurs as if to herself. She sighs again. This time, there is pensiveness to it. “What are we to do, hmm?”

  
She has already made up her mind however; that much is clear. She swirls her wand through the air, conjuring a single shard of glass. Voldemort recognizes the spell before she has scarcely begun it. The dark and complicated charm creates a message, utilizing blood and memory. Once sealed to the glass, it can be sent directly to and received only by a blood-related family member.

  
Bella pricks her finger on the shard. Then she places her wand to her temple. A distortion warps the air around the glass as she binds in silvery memory strands. Her spell work is masterful. She knows the Dark Arts so well. Voldemort reclaims his material form and watches silently from beside the door. Back to him, she bends over her craft until the message is complete.

  
He does nothing to stop her. She cradles the shard in her bloodied palm. Then she taps it once with her wand. It vanishes.

  
He doesn’t have to wonder what quick, sliver of information Bella has just sent to Andromeda Tonks. It was a warning, most surely- and Bella sent it despite knowing it would go unheeded.

  
Andromeda is sensible but her daughter is not. Warning idealistic people away from danger is like warning moths away from flame. They don’t listen. They go rushing forward, chasing the glow of beautiful nonsense and sweet, sweet hope. The only thing that kept Nymphadora alive the last time she dueled Bellatrix was that Bellatrix spared her. Bella knows this.

  
Voldemort shakes his head. She remains loyal to Narcissa when Narcissa does not deserve it. Apparently, she’ll go a step further for one she once held so dear. It is not a direct contradiction of his orders- not so long as she does her best to slay the girl come first chance. It is still a violation of her society’s code. She pays Andromeda the devotion of family when Andromeda was irrevocably disowned.

  
Voldemort needs no one to tell him how close they were however. He was there. He remembers.

  
He also recalls the eagerness she expressed at the thought of killing the girl- less than an hour ago. She hides her deceits well, here and there amidst sincerity. No one bothers to occlude so perfectly if they have nothing to hide.

  
When Bellatrix turns around, he is standing motionlessly behind the arm chair. He studies the marks on the wall left by her throwing knives. She simply freezes in place, the color draining from her skin. In her dark robes, she becomes monochrome- a white face separating black fabric and curly black hair.

  
He glances over at her; she flinches. Terror becomes her. How pretty she looks in a state of stricken horror. His gaze runs down her body, tracing the tremble that runs through it.

  
“Rod asked me to come visit you now and then,” he tells her in a calm, quiet voice. “He was worried you would get lonely.”

  
“I see.” Her lips barely move. She holds his gaze but only because she cannot seem to look away.

  
“Tell me something, Bella,” Voldemort says, walking leisurely around the chair and toward her. “How is your sister?”

  
Bella’s expression crumples. She steps back, hits the window sill and then edges away from him. “I…haven’t, I haven’t seen her. Not since-”

  
“Yes, you said as much earlier this evening.” He stops once she is backed into a corner. There are several feet between them. She hunches against the wall, now staring wide-eyed down at the floor. Her shaking grows more pronounced. “Bella,” he prompts her, leaning forward. “You were lying to me, weren’t you?”

  
“No, master, no,” she denies at once.

  
“Do not anger me.”

  
Her eyes fill with tears. “I wasn’t! That message just now was the only contact. I haven’t seen her!”

  
Her position right now is not one of power. Nevertheless, there is a finality in her denial. Whatever Voldemort chooses to do about it, Bella has no intention of confessing. She sees no sane reason to admit to more than what he has witnessed.

  
This is quite the dilemma, isn’t it?

  
He would usually break her fingers or torture her to the brink of death. Unfortunately, she is pregnant. He will not endanger his child by severely upsetting the mother. The other half of the problem is that it is hard to stay angry. Bella is far too appealing when she’s frightened. Her distress is far too appetizing.

  
Perhaps it is the memory of their conversation in the cellar. He knows how her more drastic emotions entice him. He has dreamed of that very flutter in her throat, the sound of her panic-mad heartbeat. He aches to think of how she struggled in his arms, how she clawed at him and writhed. Because he’s had time to consider it, her effect on him is potent. Extracting the truth from her is a clear enough goal. Temptation still misleads him. How would it feel to clasp her trembling body to his, to press against her frantic lungs? He wants to. He wants to more than he wants to hear about Andromeda.

  
That hardly matters though; it’s so easy to have both.

  
“Hush, Bella,” he soothes, advancing. The lamplight flickers, flames sputtering in their pools of oil. The shadows in the room grow longer. “Do you think I would harm you? I’m asking because it is relevant to our child…our future…our family.” She presses herself to the wall, mind fighting to find its way through his words. He brushes his knuckles across her cheek, bending toward her. “Don’t you trust me enough to tell me the truth? I thought we had grown closer.”

  
She blinks rapidly. Her eyes dart from his face to the room over his shoulder. “Yes, but…it is the truth, it is…master, please, I didn’t.”

  
“You treasured her,” he murmurs, catching her chin when she turns her face away. “Your dear Andy. Isn’t that why you became my apprentice? To grow strong and make the world better for your little sisters?” He brushes the tears from her cheeks and presses his mouth to her forehead. “And then, of course, she betrayed you.”

  
Bella’s trembling lessens somewhat, lulled by his gentle touch. She must have expected him to hurt her; at any other point in their lives, that is what he would have done. His deviation from the script has all the seeming of forgiveness.

  
“I shouldn’t have sent the warning,” she whispers to him. “I’m sorry. It won’t make a difference, master- the girl won’t heed it.”

  
“No,” he agrees, “she won’t.”

  
He caresses her face with both hands now, sweeping them over her cheeks and down around her neck. He can feel her heartbeat, solid and hard against his palm. From within its case of flesh and bone, it calls him like a siren. It tugs him along to its rhythm. Bella herself gets tangled in his labyrinthine word games. Her heart is his true opponent, bewitching him with magic he knows not. The powerful beat is the loudest sound in the room.

  
“It’s tragic and beautiful,” he comments, so very close to her now. She cannot escape him; she has been fooled into thinking she doesn’t need to. “You have given so much to your family. Your sisters have done nothing but take. Doesn’t it seem that way, dearheart? It angers me on your behalf.”

  
“I am the eldest,” Bella says haltingly. Her eyes are half-lidded. She leans into his touch. “I have to…I was supposed to take care of them.”

  
“Such tenderness,” he praises her. “Such enduring devotion. How could one small warning suffice? Surely you’ve thought to save Andromeda from herself. Convincing her to kill her husband…that would be the best way, doubtless.”

  
Bella’s eyelids flicker, her complacency waning. He tilts her head back with a grip on her hair and kisses her. The muffled sound she makes pulls something inside him, inciting urgency. He toys with her lower lip and cajoles his way into her mouth. Her chest rises and falls rapidly against his, wild and soft.

  
When he draws back to look at her, she tries to follow. The way her hands flutter over his arms is familiar now. She must want to touch him so dearly. She must want to seize him. Flimsy threads of self-restraint remind her to preserve herself. How much can he tempt her before she forgets? It was easy in the cellar. A few words from him and she forgot herself entirely. Now she stares at his mouth, pupils dilated, judgement sabotaged. Can he coax the secrets from her throat like this?

  
It’s the most riveting game he has played in days.

  
“What if Nymphadora was the one to kill her father?” he muses, evading the pull of Bella’s stare. He leans in, pressing his lips to her ear. “That’s really the only way half-bloods can hope to redeem themselves. A benevolent auntie like you wouldn’t deny her the chance.”

  
Bella blinks, unease penetrating her daze. He catches her hand and kisses her fingers. She shudders but her mind is struggling now. She’s clever and she knows him well. She can sense a shift in tactics.

  
When comprehension hits her, she inhales sharply. A rigidness overtakes her body. She is realizing it now, no matter how he muddles her senses. He has not forgiven her at all. He is simply interrogating her in a new way. Instead of testing her threshold for pain, he is playing to her most desperate desires. The attention he lavishes her with is his weapon against her.

  
“Oh,” she breathes, shrinking back against the wall. She turns, trying to edge away from him. He steps in closer, pinning her with his hips and his arms. A heavy breath rushes from her lungs, more from want than from fear.

  
“I don’t…feel well,” she says vaguely, whispering the words. Heedless, he nuzzles her ear. She shuts her eyes tightly.

  
“Of course you don’t,” he chides, his lips on her earlobe, “you know what sort of trouble you’re in.”

  
She draws a few rapid, hysterical breaths. “Master, please!” she stammers, trying to clear her head. She looks up at the ceiling, trying to mute his closeness the same way she can mute her thoughts. “I didn’t see her, believe me! We’d known- known she’d gone mad. It runs in the family now and then, an un-” She gasps when his thigh presses in between her legs. “An unpredictable insanity,” she finishes desperately, shifting and squirming in his grasp. “She can’t be reasoned with.”

  
“So you have attempted to reason with her,” he concludes.

  
He draws back enough to look her in the eye. She’s flushed and wrecked, conflicted to the point of confusion. She knows how dangerous her situation is. It is, nonetheless, the situation of her fantasies. He can see her predator’s mind stabbing at the puzzle. How can she eat the bait without springing the trap?

  
She stares at him for a moment. “Before the wedding, I tried it,” she insists slowly. “When I first found out.” He stares at her dispassionately; she resorts to begging again. “Please, master, I beseech you!”

  
“Hush, silly girl,” he says. “You’re being far too appealing. Are you trying to make me do terrible things?”

  
Her face blanks. The context is too murky; she cannot tell what he means. Is it a promise or a threat? He steps back and away from her. She nearly falls to the floor, catching herself at the last second. She stares up at him wide-eyed.

  
“You’re leaving?”

  
“What else am I to do, Bella?” he asks cruelly. “You will not confide in me. I was going to come visit you each night until the brothers return…but perhaps you prefer your solitude.”

  
A tortured expression comes onto her face, twisting her mouth. He has to catch himself. The sight almost drives him to seize her.

  
Surely she knows how tempting she is. Surely she uses it to her advantage.

  
“Please,” Bella says, her voice a rasping breath. She sinks to the floor, bowing her head. “Don’t be angry with me.”

  
“When?” he murmurs. “If you tell me or if you won’t tell me?”

  
She stares petrified at the richly carpeted floor. The words jump out of her throat. “If I tell you.”

  
Success rushes through him, fiery and giddying. He leans down a fraction, watching her. “Oh, I won’t be angry,” he assures her, wanting to peel off her skin to get at her soul- but he can have it. In spite of himself, he has let his voice turn low and rough. “In fact, I will help you decide what to do. We can find the solution together.”

  
She looks up quickly, eyes searching his face. “Yes, then-” She swallows nervously, clutching fistfuls of her robes in her fingers. “I did…meet her. Just twice.” She blinks rapidly, pausing to make sure he isn’t frowning. “Once before…prison, once after. Both times I did it in attempt to make her see sense!”

  
He goes to her, taking her by the elbows and pulling her up from the ground. “I would never think otherwise,” he says tenderly. “You are a responsible elder sister. A responsible aunt.”

  
Bella’s head hangs down, misery crossing her face. “But _that girl_ ,” she bemoans, despairing. “My lord, I have never met such a hopeless creature. One would think a metamorphmagus would have inherited the best of my family. Instead, it’s as though Andy did not lift a finger to raise her properly!”

  
Voldemort makes a soft, soothing sound in response.

  
“Clumsy, outspoken, shameless, brash,” Bella lists, her brow furrowing with distress. “I’ve wondered if she can even be salvaged! She possesses one of the most coveted bloodline abilities and yet she has no wish to make anything of herself. The taint in her blood is too strong. And now, marrying a _werewolf!_ ” Grief twists her face. “You’re right, master, you’re right, I really must kill her…”

  
“So Nymphadora was there when you spoke to Andromeda?” he infers. “This must have been quite the encounter.”

  
Bella pauses, searching his face again. “She was there, yes,” she admits finally.

  
“Tell me what happened.”

  
She is watching him warily however, perhaps regretting her outburst. She swallows. “I don’t…remember everything right now. My head is spinning.”

  
He fixes her with a cynical look. “Truly, Bella? What timing.”

  
“I only need to think about it a little bit,” she tells him quickly, leaning close. “Perhaps- perhaps by tomorrow morning.”

  
Oh, she is cunning. The trap has closed around her and she knows it. She is going to make absolutely certain that she gets the bait however. It’s all he can do not to laugh.

  
“By tomorrow morning, is it?” he says seriously. “Oh, I see. Shall I return to you at dawn then?”

  
“Master, I believe I would recover much faster if you remained-”

  
He shakes his head, grasping her shoulders and turning her. It’s a waste of time to toy with her like this. He is more than willing to give her what she wants. “This is hardly the place for such a conversation.”

  
He takes her to her bedroom. There were broken things and clutter last night when he retrieved Nagini. Now everything is fixed and flawlessly clean. The only light comes from the window, muted starlight filtering in. Voldemort steers Bella toward the bed and uses magic to shut the door behind them.

  
She glances over her shoulder at him. All the emotions that have taken her these past few minutes are fading. The grief is gone. The fear is gone. When her wanting grows too powerful, it obliterates all else. She already knows that she can get close to him and survive. It’s not like that first night when she seemed to think he would kill her for reveling in his touch.

  
Then again, he _did_ almost kill her.

  
Now that she carries his child, he is very reluctant to harm her- and she’s noticing that too. He’ll have to compensate for it somehow lest she escape his control. He’ll inflict some minor injuries on the brothers, he supposes- not enough to truly upset Bella but enough to serve as a warning. They can be her stand-ins. They’ll probably accept the punishments calmly. Like Voldemort, they would sooner endure all sorts of trouble than endanger Meissa.

   
For a strange, split second, Voldemort remembers Lily Potter’s face. Then he dismisses the image. Wanting to be a good father and dying for his child are two different things entirely. After all, if the first child dies, he can always create a second one. The mudblood should have kept that in mind.

  
He feels cold then. He threads his fingers into Bella’s hair and brushes it back from her neck. The clasps at the back of her plain, black robes come undone at his touch. He runs his hands down her arms.

  
“Does this sort of thing help your head?” he inquires, idly tugging one side of her robes from her shoulder. There is lacy black silk underneath it, a thin shift that hugs her body. Her flushed skin warms his hands. She’s wearing a different scent tonight, he notices. It smells like pine trees and morning rain. Rabastan is manipulating him again; it’s the smell of the forest outside Hogwarts. It makes him feel like he’s home.

  
He flicks her robes away so that they fall down to her feet. He tugs her back against his body, resting his cheek on the top of her hair. He baits her quietly, “is this what you want?”

  
She trembles beneath his touch, eyes unfocused and whispers, “yes, yes,” to whatever he says.

  
It’s better to live close to her, he thinks and pushes her down onto the bed. Alone, he spent his nights dwelling on poisonous thoughts in the dark. He was either bored or listless or furious. Here at the manor, he is constantly entertained- or riveted as he is now. Why did he let the Lestranges upset him? If he manages them correctly, they make his existence pleasant. He kisses Bella and vanishes her silks. He plucks at her body just to see how desperately he can make her writhe.

  
It’s all coming into place now. He’ll kill Harry Potter; he’ll seize control of the world. Then he’ll live with his favorite friends and raise his child- forever, for all eternity. It is a perfectly suitable resolution. Bellatrix shifts beneath him, shuddering, gasping and stifling cries. She kisses his hands when they stray near her face, lips parted and breath warm. He slips his fingers into her mouth, wondering at the sensation. It’s a tantalizing resolution. It’s an urgent one.

  
He realizes suddenly that it’s been weeks since he’s had her. The time shouldn’t matter but it does. Her heaving chest and glassy eyes make him painfully aware of it. Those nights he spent aching for her didn’t dissolve when he banished them. They merely skulked into the shadows, laying in wait. He’s impatient now. He runs his hands over her from her shoulders to her rounder breasts and barely swollen stomach. He settles them on her hips, fingers digging in. This is a luxury. He vanishes his robes in the darkness and stands. He drags her to the edge of the bed, steps in close and takes her.

  
His thoughts derail as always, fogged by heat and compression. It’s mindless but the pleasure is reason enough to do it. He drives himself into her slick warmth, clutching at her, pinning her hands to the bed when she tries to touch him. Her gasps have turned strained and ragged, tearing from her flushed body. There’s a tattoo on her left arm like a brand. It tells less of ownership than the way she always wants to be near him, always stares at him, always lusts.

  
Her eyes are dark, endless pits but this time he lets himself fall.

  
After the high, it’s easy to just lie there in Bella and Rod’s bed. He feels relaxed and calm. It’s better than the comfort of fine things. It’s warmer than sitting in front of a fire. Bella is curled at his side, sated and fast asleep. She has bruises and bite marks, pretty spots of color on her skin.

  
Senselessly, he thinks, it’s fine now. It’s all fine.

  
He stares vacantly at the chamber’s ceiling and perhaps falls asleep. Later though, when the night has become deep, something chafes inside him. A horrible, mangled need creeps into his chest. The nameless desperation rises the longer he lies still. He should leave and work his plans. Instead, he remains where he is as if paralyzed. The impulse he feels is mutilated beyond recognition and he cannot define it. In the deep night blackness, it crushes and suffocates him.

  
Once was not enough, he finally decides. He must have her again. He settles over the witch’s back and pulls her hips up against him. Even face down, her shape is appealing. Her curling hair spills all over the pillow, hiding most of her face. He makes a fist in it, tugging lightly on her head. He thrusts into her before she has even come awake.

  
It is much the same as the first time- except that Bella manages to last longer before her insides spasm around him. She moans and cries out into the pillow, clawing at her sheets. He uses his grip on her hair to push her head down, keeping her voice muffled. It’s a heady moment. It satisfies and wearies him. When he crests again he thinks perhaps this is enough.

  
Bella lies collapsed on the bed like a discarded doll for a while. Then she gives an incoherent murmur and curls back up at his side. He decides to stay where he is. In the morning, she will tell him about Andromeda. It’s bound to be an interesting tale.

  
To Bella and Narcissa, Andromeda’s defection was abrupt. To Voldemort, is was a foreseeable step in an extensive campaign. He never considered the Blacks’ middle child to be a political rival. Her disgrace was, nonetheless, related to her actions against him. She amused him at the time. It’s fitting that she should continue doing so. After all, she was the first person to ever use his own legilimency against him. Most people aware of his gifts hide their thoughts when he is near.

  
Andromeda Black, however, smiled politely every time that she saw him. Before the eyes of her parents, she uttered harmless social pleasantries. Only a telepath could know she was cursing him in her head. She flung corrosive invectives at him in silence, each overflowing with hate, and she reveled in the fact he could hear them. He gained access to all of her memories that way. To this day, however, her thoughts so easily return. He can hear them in the dark, lying in bed with the sister she loved more than life itself.

  
_Filth, parasite, wretch, liar, devil, sadist, conman, vermin, parasite, parasite, parasite…_


	6. Chapter 6

The first memory he plucked from Andromeda Black’s mind was of water splashing. Like every scene he stole, it was immersive. Perception and sensory data detracted from its clarity. Some aspects were vivid; some were blurred by inattention. Voldemort did not watch the proceedings as a removed observer. He experienced them as the memory’s owner had experienced them.

  
_Splash!_

  
The sound cast echoes through a large bathroom. Stray droplets clung to the mirrors and the sinks. Early morning sunlight streamed in through high-up windows. A bath was set into the stone floor, wide and big enough to accommodate seven people. It did not emit steam. The water within it was cold.

  
The light scent of roses perfumed the Slytherin girls' lavatory. That did not make it a safe place.

  
“Is this the last one for the week?” Andy asked curiously as she inspected her reflection. She always looked quite beautiful, even immediately after waking up. Her glossy, curling hair was a dark shade of brown. Her eyes were gray, often black in the shadows. Her aristocratic bone structure gave her a remote, statuesque appeal. ‘Quite beautiful’ was not enough for a Black’s standards however. ‘Quite beautiful’ had to be paired with poise, eloquence, subtlety and viciousness. ‘Quite beautiful’ had to be applied by a meticulously organized mind. Andy patiently reviewed herself for imperfections. Then she reviewed her mental schedule for the day. Appearances were important to Slytherins and they were paramount to the Sisters Black.

  
There was far too much at stake.

  
“Yes, yes, last one.” Bellatrix was some paces away from the mirrors and sinks, seated on the edge of the bath. Her hand was immersed in the violently splashing water, the sleeve of her uniform rolled up. She looked crisper somehow than she had last year. Perhaps it was her shiny new prefect’s badge. She had somehow managed to finagle one despite her tendency toward trouble.

  
Bella picked fights and she invariably won them; on the other hand, she had the highest grades in her year.

  
Andy glanced over at her sister, frowning. Bella’s foot was tapping impatiently at the floor, a dangerous restlessness emanating from her. Her mane of black curls was pulled up into a classy knot. One ringlet fell freely down the side of her face in a decidedly saucy fashion. When she noticed Andy’s scrutiny, she arched one eyebrow. The look was only playfully admonishing. Her eyes danced with warmth and laughter.

  
“What?”

  
“You haven’t come with me to Hogsmeade this term,” Andromeda observed, turning haughtily back to the mirror. “It’s cold of you. Have you better things to do now than ferry your sister around?”

  
Bella scoffed. “Who is ferrying you around? I don’t recall ever driving you to Hogsmeade in a threstral-drawn coach. But you have a point, my heart…maybe we should pop into the post together for a few minutes this weekend, use the fire to floo-call home. There’s lots of family business lately…if you know what I mean.”

  
That drew Andy up short, fury sparking powerfully in her. As with all of her strong emotions, it filled her entire body. It idly batted away her perfectionist composure and her painstaking attention to detail. Her mouth twisted.

  
“Not again!“ she bit out, eyes blazing. “You’ve heard something? Another proposal?”

  
“Three proposals, sadly,” Bella enunciated, glaring icily into the choppy water.

  
Andromeda had paled with her rage; she could see it in the mirror. She was dark, spiteful eyes set in a stone face. “Cissy is twelve!”

  
Bella‘s mouth was a cruel, white line but she only hummed whimsically. “Does Uncle Orion care?”

  
“She’s _twelve_ , Bella, and she isn’t Uncle’s bargaining chip! I won’t stand for it! I’ll curse his extremities to rot and fall off!”

  
“Hush, hush, now,” the elder sister soothed. “We’ll deal with it. We always do.”

  
She pulled her hand out of the water. With it came a fistful of scraggly brown hair and a scrunched up, tearful face. Bella’s fingers were wound through the Slytherin second year girl’s hair who, until just now, she had been drowning in the bath.

  
The girl gasped frantically for breath, too starved of oxygen to struggle.

  
Andromeda attempted to exhale her vexation out with a sigh. This was no time to rage about the Blacks’ Head of Family. Cissy’s legendary beauty was inviting trouble even before she bloomed into womanhood. In a society where older generations exploited and traded off the younger, only Bella and Andy had her best interests at heart.

  
That’s why Bella was tormenting a second year. Andy squinted at her reflection and used a spell to shape her eyebrows better.

  
“Gracious, poor dear,” Bella crooned to her prey, again tapping her foot on the ground. “You’re in such a state! Have we learned our lesson yet, I wonder?”

  
“C-co-conceited bitches!” the girl rasped through her gasping. “None of you are as good as you think you are! Someone has to say it!”

  
“And you decided to be the lucky volunteer!” Bella finished sweetly. She made it sound as though the girl had won a special prize. Andy half-expected her to conjure some confetti. “Starting with my little sister, Narcissa, no less. What did you call her again?” She leaned closer by a fraction, dazzling smile still in place. “Do remind me.”

  
The second year’s bravery faltered a bit. She gripped the bath‘s stone edge, looking wide-eyed up at Bella through the tangle of her dripping hair.

  
“Andy,” said Bella with a light sigh, “this isn’t working. Gentle reprimands simply cannot suffice to keep the wretchedly envious in line. It seems we must use your potion after all…”

  
“Such a shame,” Andy murmured and turned away from the mirror. “I suppose it can’t be helped, can it? It’s the responsibility of elder siblings to look out for the younger. This tongue is unworthy even of Cissy’s name; I’ll not suffer to hear slander from it.”

  
Andromeda was not consumed with anger at the world. She was not bothered by mudbloods in her classroom or half breeds in her school. Live and let live. Why not? If they posed no threat to her goals and her lifestyle, she saw no reason to threaten theirs. She would not champion them; she simply did not care. She held no special malice for her societal peers either.

  
If her classmates were cold to her, it was because she made them feel inadequate.

  
All of this ambivalence was nullified when some brainless little chit called Narcissa a ‘conceited whore’. It was not to be tolerated. Scions of the wealthiest and most respected families were still not good enough to get away with slandering Cissy. Andy cared about her sisters and she cared very much. To her, all the Black Family’s wealth and prestige was sewn into their hair- platinum and ebony, the keystones of her pride. There was nothing more precious. There was nothing more dear. Not only would she harm someone who attacked what she loved, she would harm the attacker with relish.

  
She took a small vial from her pocket, crossed over to the bathtub and carelessly spilled a few droplets in. Bella gave the second year a shove at the same time, sending the girl underwater. The bath splashed wildly but Bella had already drawn her wand. An elegant shield charm enveloped the sisters, deflecting the drops that came their way.

  
The water in the bath was a now an eerie shade of green. It splashed so violently that, were it not for Bella’s shield, both the sisters would have been soaked.

  
“My, my,” Bella marveled softly, eyes wide with a dark excitement. “Doesn’t that look painful? Whatever did you put in there?”

  
Andy flashed her a sweet smile. Then the second-year emerged, flailing and coughing up water. The girl’s skin was covered in swollen, greenish pustules, stretching from her face and hands to beneath her sodden robes. From the way she was shrieking and thrashing, they were the kind that hurt considerably.

  
The sisters watched in silence for a moment.

  
“I’d say that does it,” Bella hazarded then, still surveying Andy’s work.

  
“And if the pain’s not lesson enough, having to walk around looking like that…”

  
“Oh, certainly,” she agreed. “Green as envy itself!” They stepped back as the twelve year-old managed to topple out of the bath. Bella dismissed her shield, putting her hands on her hips. “Well, little miss, that was educational! How about you run along and ask Sluggy to recap the lesson for you? He can give you a few more tips on _who you shouldn’t provoke_. Maybe he’ll have something to help with your cute, new blemishes too!”

  
Bella did not have to tell her twice. Making short, frantic sobbing noises, the second year lurched her way out of the bathroom. Green-tinged water left a dripping trail behind her.

  
Bella smiled brightly and flicked her wand at the bath. The water vanished.

  
“All done for the week then,” she noted with satisfaction. “We got that filthy, Gryffindor half-blood on Monday…wasn’t he a bother? Slytherins are so much easier to deal with. They know better than to go blabbing to Dumbledore and we don’t have to mess around with ensuring their silence.” She paused, her expression growing distant. “You know, I recently heard about a type of Compulsion Charm that prevents people from speaking about something. It’s so terribly advanced though…it might be several decades before I can cast it.”

  
A strange, dark wanting crept into Bellatrix’s eyes. It was the look of a witch who had glimpsed her heart’s desire. It struck Andromeda as alien because desire had no place in her and her sisters’ lives. Bella, Andy and Narcissa _already had_ everything they wanted- status, wealth, skill, beauty and more than anything else, each other.

  
In a world of deceit, trust and friendship were the most expensive of luxuries. What made the sisters a prime target of envy was that no one could get between them. Nothing could make them quarrel. They reveled in each other’s friendship without shame and without fear. The other heirs of wealthy families inched cautiously forward, hunted and isolated. The Sisters Black walked dauntlessly together and laughed.  
This was perfection. This was contentment. The only thing they needed to do was keep other people from taking it away.

  
Bella shook her head and sighed quietly. “Well! The benefit of aiming high is that I have much to look forward to. ‘Never sabotage yourself with limited ambition’.” She sounded like she was quoting someone. Andromeda waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. “Shall we be off, my heart? Breakfast starts in fifteen minutes; there’s no better time to tell Cissy that her roommate turned green.”

  
Andromeda and Bellatrix did in fact go to Hogsmeade together that Saturday. It was the 12th of November, 1966 and snow was falling thickly from above. Bella tapped her wand on Andy’s shoulder as the professors did a roll call. Magical warmth infused Andy’s coat, mittens and scarf, chasing away the chill. The snowflakes in her curly hair melted.

  
With Andy in her fourth year and Bella in her fifth, this excursion was a familiar one. They had gone to Hogsmeade together every chance last term. This year, of course, Bella had been busy with her prefect duties, her shady meet-ups with other students and…so on. Andy’s life was hectic. She hadn’t considered Bella’s excuses as suspicious until enough of them piled up. Now they rankled her, hanging in her thoughts.

  
She stood close to her sister, one mittened hand hooked around Bella’s elbow. When the roll call finished, they set off into the snow. The hazy, white world swallowed them quickly. Then it swallowed the castle behind them. The lazily drifting snowflakes blotted out everything. They could only see several meters of the icy road ahead.

  
Thanks to Bella’s heating charm, Andromeda stayed warm.

  
The difficulty in dealing with Uncle Orion was that he did not listen. To the Blacks’ Head of Family, the merit of words was not determined by their logic. It was determined by who said them. A young person’s words were silly, irrational and naïve. A witch’s words were overly emotional. If Bella were to shout, for instance, “the house is on fire, uncle, we must put it out!” he would sneer and ignore her- regardless of how much the room smelled like smoke.

  
Being both young and female, Andy and Bella were obliged to deal with their uncle creatively. They went around him.

  
“Mrs. Selwyn,” said Bella through the post office fire, “thank Merlin I reached you; it’s the most troubling news! I’ve heard the Rosiers have begun to look within my family for a match. It’s simply unthinkable considering your plans for your daughter and Evan. I know how much his parents sway to your opinions. It must be their Head of Family meddling again. Please, I cannot bear the thought of strife between our families. Won’t you help me avert this disaster?”

  
Their defensive strategies proceeded mostly like that. They did not need to do anything directly. They analyzed the social web, threw a rock at it and watched spiders come swarming to the vibrations. When enough families bickered, nothing whatsoever got done. Andy and Bella knew this and thus, they protected their sister.

  
After seven floo calls and two letters, the sisters left the post. The agitation Bella had demonstrated several days past was resurfacing. Her gaze swept ceaselessly over the snow-dusted Hogsmeade street, never settling. She had that look in her eye again- a raptor that wants its rabbit, a hungering great shrike. They walked for a little bit, commenting on stores and passersby. Bella’s brimming restlessness however kept the conversation minimal.

  
“More mudbloods than last year, it seems,” Andy noted, trying to get her sister worked up. “It’s like the filthy things are taking over. What is our world coming to?”

  
“Mmhm,” agreed Bella absently and her eyes kept sweeping the street.

  
Andromeda fell silent at the point, her brow knitting. She did not like this. It had all the seeming of a secret. Several years ago, perhaps, she would have turned on the spot and demanded that Bella explain. Now she wondered if it wouldn’t be hypocritical. Close as they were, sometimes things happened. Sometimes there were games to play and amusements to chase. Andromeda herself had recently stumbled across a most intriguing diversion- and she couldn’t tell anyone.

  
“Shall I head back?” Andy asked after a few more minutes. “You look like you have somewhere to go.”

  
“I do,” Bella admitted, finally looking at her sister, “and it is about time for me to leave. I’m sorry we cannot spend the day together, my heart. At least by next year, you will be able to come with Cissy.”

  
Andy pursed her lips, tilting her head. “That’s all? You make it sound as though you won’t be able to spend Hogsmeade weekends with me from now on.”

  
Bella hesitated to answer- which was unlike her. Then she smiled. “I’m not trying to keep secrets. It’s just that I’m still getting a grasp on the situation. I mustn’t boast before I know what I’ve accomplished.” She gave a thoughtful hum. “Let’s just say I’ve found a teacher. Someone who knows _real_ magic.”

  
Andy shook her head. “Who is this teacher?”

  
“It’s fine, Andy,” Bella assured her at once. “He moves in respectable circles. He’s a friend of the Lestrange brothers. You know they have all the right opinions about things.”

  
The social reputation of Bella’s new instructor was not, in fact, the first concern that had jumped into Andy’s mind. There were plenty of reputable people in the pureblood society Andromeda wouldn’t trust with her sister. As for the Lestranges, they were reclusive. Literally the only thing Andy knew about them was that there was ostensibly nothing wrong with them.

  
Still.

  
“Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” said Andy after a moment. “Just be cautious, please. And…tell me more once you feel comfortable with it?”

  
Bella’s eyes sparkled. “Of course!” Then she threw her arms around her sister and kissed the top of her head. “Well, I’m off. Buy Cissy some of those artisan chocolates she likes before you leave.”

  
Andromeda, of course, did not not follow Bellatrix from that spot on the road. Her concerns were still minimal. Throughout her fourteen years of life, Bella’s judgement had always been reliable. The eldest sister took drastic risks now and then but she also reaped the greatest rewards. Andy followed her, assisted her and steadied her- but Bella was easily the leader between them. What harm could come of this?

  
Andromeda purchased some very classy imported chocolates. Then she walked back to school. Bellatrix’s heating charm wore off fifteen minutes before Andy arrived at the castle. She did not attempt to renew it. Her year was mastering summoning charms and would not begin temperature for months.

  
By the time she reached the Hogwarts gates, she was cold to the bone.

  
Voldemort, meanwhile, was greeting his young student.

  
All people have set boundaries of what they are willing to tolerate. Whether or not they think about it, there’s a point where they’ll say, “too much!” They keep specific limits of what they are willing to sacrifice, what they are willing to endure and what hoops they are willing to jump through. If the reward is great enough, these limits are lessened. With a bit of careful persuasion, these limits are nullified completely.

  
It begins with warning them.

  
“The Dark Arts is not a practice for the faint of heart,” he explained, glancing absently around the room. The houses in this part of Hogsmeade were for rent. This one was not in his name and he had moved practically nothing into it. The plaster walls were bare and the floor was an open space.

  
Bellatrix stood by the door in her coat and her green Slytherin scarf. Her nose and cheeks were red from the cold. There was a light in her eyes as she watched him.

  
Their first couple of lessons together had served to solidify her fascination. Now he had to blur the limits of what she was willing to do.

  
“Aurors master dueling by honing their reflexes,” he said. “So must you. Powerful witches and wizards travel the world to learn the most effective, most potent of spells. I will teach them to you. The truly difficult part of learning the Dark Arts- and what will distinguish you from your enemies- is overcoming pain.” He met her eyes then, giving a slight shake of his head. “Fear must not slow you. Injuries must not give you pause. If you allow either to distract you, even the simplest of these techniques will unravel. There is no room within this discipline for weakness.”

  
“Master,” she addressed him, leaning forward an inch. The title was a token. They could not interact with each other inside the modern setting of a school. They had only this ancient tradition, barely preserved in the present time. They were master and apprentice; that was the arrangement he’d proposed. The practice dated back to when magic users had no means of converging as a society. If their family was not available to teach them, young witches and wizards had gone on journeys to find mentors.

  
Pureblood families were all very old-fashioned. Bellatrix took it in stride.

  
“I am not weak,” she assured him without hesitation. “I never have been.”

  
“Strength is not something you are born possessing,” he told her quietly. “Strength is a choice. You choose it every time you resist defeat. Can you dismiss weariness in order to push yourself? Can you ignore injuries in order to win a duel? Can you conjure up a state of mind in which you fear nothing? Your goal, Bellatrix, is not to say yes but to live the affirmative.”

  
“I will do my best, master,” she said graciously. “Especially if the spells you teach me make my enemies _more_ weary, _more_ afraid and _more_ injured.”

  
A laugh burst out of his chest, surprising him. She had a dainty and vulnerable appearance. She was also dauntless, clever and vicious. The disparity was _charming_. He nodded. “Especially then, yes.”

  
Her answering smile was radiant.

  
“I simply wished to make you aware of the trials involved before we continue,” he concluded, pulling his wand from his sleeve. “If you are willing to face hurt and hardship, I can make you the most powerful dark witch of this age. Nevertheless, it is your choice. Choose this path only if you want it.”

  
He’d made sure that she wanted it. His words now offered both reward and challenge. If she backed out, she was weak; that’s how he led her to see it. If she pressed forward, she believed it was her decision. He appealed to her pride. He convinced her that she knew what she was getting into. The fire in her gaze told him clearer than words that he’d succeeded.

  
Now he could hurt her as much as he pleased, teach her with as much brutal efficiency as needed, and she wouldn’t run away from him.

  
  
o0O0o

 

Voldemort left the empty house some time after Bellatrix but he did not go far. It was evening by then, snow blanketing the town in icy darkness. The only light came from windows, yellow flickers spilling out onto the roads. He went around the corner, his cowl drawn. He did not casting a warming charm on himself. The cold and the dark no longer bothered him.

  
When he reached a comfortable little house not far from his makeshift classroom, he flicked a finger at the door. The brass knocker rapped twice. A moment later, the door swung open.

  
Horace Slughorn stood on the other side, his head balder and his mustache grayer than Voldemort remembered. He was renting this residence to store acquisitions and potion ingredients Dumbledore would not exactly approve of. It was hard to straddle the fence in a polarized society. In fact, Slughorn seemed to be leaning more towards Dumbledore’s side these days. Voldemort had returned to the United Kingdoms months ago. It was only now that Slughorn agreed to meet with him.

  
“Tom, gracious, come in, come in,” the potions master said, hastily shutting the door once Voldemort stepped inside. A bit of snow drifted in on the currents of cold air, melting on the wooden floor.

  
The name rankled. It always did. Being called ‘Tom’ felt like having excrement flung in his face. His filthy past rode that single syllable, rising like a wave to drag him down. He had been erasing himself meticulously. He had gone to all his old classmates and acquaintances, fogging the memory of himself in their mind. He had several more people to visit. By the time he was done however, the individuals who could actually connect him to Tom Riddle would number less than five.

  
He’d never dream of erasing Slughorn’s memory. It was a childish decision, perhaps. Even so, his respect and gratitude ran too deep. His old potions teacher was the first person to ever extend a hand to him. He was the first person who had ever given Voldemort good advice. The orphan had always wanted a father figure; Slughorn’s symbiotic exploitation was the closest he ever got.

  
He allowed the name, if only for now. It suited his purposes to pick up where they’d left off. He would act as if no time had passed at all.

  
“Professor,” he returned warmly, lowering his cowl. “It’s so good to see you again, sir. Have you been well?”

  
The question was a formality. A brush against Slughorn’s mind had already affirmed that yes, the potions teacher was well. His proteges were famous and influential. He had connections all over the Wizarding World. Dumbledore’s strong political opinions made things a little more difficult than in the old days. Slughorn had to distance himself from pureblooded families. He still dabbled. He just had to be indirect.

  
“I am very well, very well,” Slughorn answered amiably, shuffling into the cozy sitting room. There were plush armchairs, a fireplace and a liquor cabinet. It was very like him. He flicked his wand at the cabinet and a bottle of mulled mead poured itself into two glasses.

  
“Times are changing,” Slughorn added, sinking himself down into one of the chairs, “but that can’t be helped. I’m content so long as enough promising students come trotting in each year.” He chuckled a bit and took a sip of his mead. “None of them are anything like you, of course. There’s only ever been one of you.”

  
Voldemort seated himself in the chair across from Slughorn, a pleasant smile on his mouth. “So who are the Wizarding World’s most promising?”

  
“Oh, the usual,” Slughorn shrugged. “The Malfoy heir, Rosier, the Blacks, this very clever half-blood boy in Ravenclaw. I invite them to dinners, introduce them to the right people. It’s the same old process.” He paused, his face going blank for a moment. “Some of them haven’t had the time though lately. They go running off to who-knows-where in the evenings. Practicing together, they say. Practicing what? You don’t make connections by avoiding opportunities!”

  
Bellatrix had something of a homework assignment. He’d told her weeks ago to start identifying the most talented of her peers. She would show them a few spells, test the waters, then eventually introduce them to Voldemort. He refused to settle for the best and worst of pureblood heirs. He wanted the best of every Hogwarts house.

  
“Children are always running off somewhere,” Voldemort murmured. “Especially in changing times.”

  
Slughorn made a noncommittal noise in response and drank more of his mead. “It’s such a shame you didn’t get the job. It would have been marvelous to have you around again. You have such a way with people. I get along with the children but keeping their attention? They disappear, straying from the path to chase…to chase strange things.” His eyes were troubled now, lost in his portly face. He watched Tom in a subdued way. “You look different since you went to travel the world,” he said. “You look pale. Almost hollow.”

  
“I’m sure it’s only the light, sir,” said Voldemort calmly.

  
“Dumbledore has a very narrow idea of what is acceptable,” Slughorn admitted, “don’t get me wrong. You were one of dozens he rejected. Still, Tom, still…there have been unsettling signs. Power shifting amidst the elite. Radicals vying for control of the old families. I’ve heard rumors…of evil things.”

  
“Evil?” Voldemort repeated, gentle-voiced and reasonable. “That’s a silly word.”

  
“Silly!” Slughorn exclaimed, leaning back in his chair with a laugh. “No, no, it’s a necessary word. Some spells are too horrid to be described as anything else.”

  
“So you were talking about spells,” his guest said with an air of realization. “I understand. You see, when people use the word ‘evil’, they can mean so many different things by it. I have a difficult time figuring out which one. Muggles? Supremacists? Half-breeds? Germans? British? The opposing political party? Anyone different from you?” Voldemort shook his head, feigning fatigue. “All of these things are commonly described as ‘evil’. Nonetheless, I am expected to intuit which you mean.”

  
Slughorn floundered for a moment. “Some people use the word too loosely, I’ll admit,” he told Voldemort, “but there is still a line no one should cross.”

  
“Oh?” said Voldemort softly. “Which line exactly? In my travels, I have encountered many lines. It’s ‘evil’ to harm cows. It’s ‘evil’ to touch dogs. It’s ‘evil’ to eat pigs. It’s ‘evil’ to be a foreigner.”

  
Slughorn snorted. “When you go to far corners, it’s unavoidable that you meet people with bizarre ideas. Murder and cruelty are evil. As most people in our society would agree.”

  
“Believing that your culture's way of thinking is the most correct,” Voldemort explained, “is called ethnocentrism. Some people would say you are being quite rude.” To this, Slughorn snorted again; Voldemort dismissed the argument. “Besides, what counts as murder and cruelty exactly? Labels like that are far too subjective to withstand reality.”

  
“Alright, alright,” Slughorn conceded, “we can debate philosophy, if you like. But not until after I refill my glass!”

  
Voldemort watched in silence as the bottle came floating over to them. He seldom bothered to explain the world to people. It was easier to play to their preconceptions. The pureblood families who believed themselves superior to muggleborns and half-bloods, for example. He utilized their prejudice without mentioning that he was a half-blood himself. His own deep and personal loathing of muggles made the process simple.

  
Slughorn, however, was the one who had first introduced him to Slytherin’s method. He wanted the potions master to understand and agree with him.

  
“Professor,” he said, “is crystallized pineapple good or bad? You would say good, of course. It’s your favorite. I might say bad. Perhaps I detest it. Of our two differing opinions, which one is fact?” He answered his own question, his voice negligent. “Well, obviously, neither. The only fact here is that we’re discussing crystallized pineapple.”

  
“I agree,” Slughorn assured him, “but the act of killing another living being is not remotely comparable to candy.”

  
“It has more consequences than candy,” Voldemort said with a small smile, “but the differences in how we perceive killing are the same as the differences in how we perceive food. A living being kills another living being. Is it murder, self-defense, euthanasia, necessity, war, collateral damage, abortion, racial purification, genocide, revenge, justice…I could go on and on, really. We have so many different terms to describe the act of killing. We have so many different ways of perceiving it.”

  
“That’s what the Wizengamot exists to decide,” Slughorn pointed out, his bushy brows furrowing.

  
“And they decide by majority vote,” Voldemort concluded. “In other words, the most common opinion. It is not a factual conclusion at all, I’m afraid. After all, the majority of people are illogical and easily deceived. Court is not about truth. It’s about which advocate is better at manipulating the opinion of the Wizengamot.”

  
Slughorn’s frown grew deeper, his mind processing Voldemort’s words. Meanwhile, his guest continued.

  
“Our interpretation of reality is relative to how we perceive it. Human perception assigns meaning to actions. Our perception is distilled from our experiences and our instincts. There is nothing factual about it. Is a spell good or bad? You say bad. I say good. Neither of us is universally correct. Opinions are not facts. That is why ‘evil’ is a _silly, ridiculous nonsense word_.”

  
Slughorn shook his head vaguely and took another drink. “That, Tom, is a very uncomfortable mindset.”

  
“Of course it is,” Voldemort agreed with compassion. “When someone hurts you, you want to dehumanize them by calling them ‘evil’. If you do, it feels like the universe itself is on your side. Instead of it being _your_ fault your defenses were down, you can become the victim of unfairness- as if fairness is a scientific element of the world. It is not, of course. Fairness is a societal construct that changes with the wind. The universe is not on anyone’s side. It certainly does not care about us.

  
“It is far more logical to one, take responsibility for your losses and two, remember that your enemy is human. A human enemy has human weaknesses that you can exploit. Through rationality, you can turn the tables on them all the faster.”

  
“Hmm, yes, well,” Slughorn muttered, nodding, “that is all very strategic.”

  
“Strength is a choice, sir,” Voldemort said for the second time that day. “It is the choice to choose power over comfort. You cannot seize control of your surroundings without understanding them first- but awareness is both power and poison. It _hurts_ to understand.”

  
“Why?” Slughorn inquired, looking puzzled.

  
“Imagine standing with a crowd of people inside a hideous, dangerous room. Everyone else is smiling because they are wearing blindfolds. They don’t see the horrors that surround them. Grief, doubt, violence, helplessness, they shut it all out. They would be able to defend themselves better if they opened their eyes. To do that, however, they would have to sacrifice their happiness. They would have to abandon the sweet lies that insulate their minds.” Voldemort smiles thinly. “These blindfolds, of course, are called Trust, Security, Optimism, Love, Religion and Morality. Delusions constructed by human beings to make reality less painful.”

  
“Religion is something people believe in,” Slughorn spluttered. “It isn’t delusional.”

  
“Professor,” said Voldemort reasonably. “If hundreds to billions of people believe something that makes no sense, it’s called religion. If one to twenty people believe something that makes no sense, it’s called schizophrenia. Regardless, it’s the exact same behavior: kneeling in an empty room and talking to yourself.”

  
“Huh.” Slughorn looked down at his glass. “Honestly, to me, Christmastime is just an opportunity to throw lavish parties with important guests. And the puddings, oh, they're marvelous.”

  
Voldemort waved his hand dismissively. “Strength is a choice because you can open your eyes whenever you want. You can choose to go through life without a blindfold. Literally anyone can make this choice- even muggles. They can never achieve the godly heights that we can. They can, however, master their surroundings. Psychology. Manipulation. Persuasive rhetoric. Pragmatism. A fortified and weaponized mind. There is no reason a muggle cannot use these powers. The information is available! Strategic and ruthless muggles are not going to live out their lives as failures. So why are the majority of all people failures?” He laughed derisively and answered himself again. “Because going forward knowing the world is your enemy _hurts_. They choose the more comfortable options: denial, delusion and ignorance.”

  
“Maybe.” Slughorn was beginning to look perturbed. “Maybe you’re right. I can’t see any faults in the logic. But what’s so bad about wanting to be comfortable? Isn’t getting comfort the point of thinking strategically?” He looked tired and lost all of a sudden. “What are you even saying, Tom?”

  
“There is no good and evil,” Voldemort summarized, “only power and those too weak to seek it.”

  
He meant what he said and, uncertain as he has been regarding love and family, he has never doubted this much. Power is available to anyone who dares to look at the world. It will accumulate in anyone who endures the pain of accepting it. Strength is a choice. No matter what wretched hell hole you’re born in, you can gather it little by little. You can claw your way up with tooth and nail. You can resign yourself to never being happy. You can live exclusively for spite. You can trust no one, become utterly dissociated and removed from your emotions. You can aim higher and higher because even if the steps are not yet visible, the puzzle pieces come slowly together.

  
Then you’ll think to yourself, _“life is easy.”_

  
Slughorn had turned very pale. It was visible even in the the dim firelight. “Had you not explained it all to me, I would think such a statement was madness. And truly, knowing you’re correct does little to put me at ease.”

  
“Muggles call this point of view ‘sociopathy,’” Voldemort said in conclusion. “It’s classified as a personality disorder. This is ironic because my way of thinking is far more _orderly_ than a normal one. Human beings evolved to protect themselves from their own ability to understand. The classifications are delineated by the many. For every one of me, there are ten thousand delusional people. My perspective is logically irrefutable. I am neither ‘evil’ nor insane.

  
“I am simply outnumbered.”  
  
  
o0O0o

 

Andromeda walked down the staircase toward the dungeons, pulling off her gloves. She was beginning to wish she had pressed Bellatrix for more details. The Black Family possessed any number of illegal, Dark Arts grimoires. The sisters were all familiar with the curses within. It had never occurred to Andromeda that her sister- who was the top of her year already- would want more. Who was this friend of the Lestrange brothers? How had he managed to snag Bella’s interest and respect?

  
Andy did not always follow rules. Sometimes, she dabbled in risks for the sake of amusing herself. She always drew the line between amusement and danger though. She would not harm herself or her family for the sake of a game. Bella, on the other hand, was not a witch of half-measures.

  
Andy shook her head, tucked her gloves into her pocket and stepped into an empty, dungeon hallway.

  
The suit of armor standing watch against the wall straightened, creaked a few steps forward and gave a stiff bow.

  
“The beautiful Ms. Black!” it greeted exuberantly. “I see your formidable sister is not with you! Do you require a gallant escort to your common room?”

  
Andy paused, struggling not to chuckle. The suit of armor wobbled in place for a moment. Simply watching to see if it fell over was entertaining. She waited, raising her eyebrow.

  
The suit of armor cleared its throat. “Not a speck of mud on me, you see,” it justified itself. “I am just the escort you deserve!”

  
“That’s funny,” she noted smoothly, feeling lighter and happier than before, “you sound awfully like this _muggleborn_ boy who mysteriously has all the same elective classes I do.”

  
“It must be the echoey sound of the helmet,” insisted the suit of armor. “I’m just a suit of armor!”

  
Laughter broke its way free from Andy’s self-restraint. She quickly covered her mouth, trying to smother her snickering. The whole school might hear her if she didn’t; like the rest of her family, she had a loud, ringing laugh.

  
“So…” the suit said hopefully. “May I escort you?”

  
“To the end of this corridor at least,” she conceded.

  
It was only a diversion. She meant absolutely nothing by it. She spoke to him sparingly, mocked him lightly and at other times, laughed at his jokes. Andy was fourteen years old and laughing made her feel invincible. It made her dark worries and darker angers dissipate like smoke. She never told her sisters but she didn't need to. This meant nothing. Life was weightless. Everything was fine.

  
This game she sometimes played was named Ted Tonks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I put you through philosophy and moral relativism in the last chapter, I felt like you deserved an early update, haha. I'm still trying to sell you on the past. Andromeda's situation is critical to some plot farther down the line...That said, there's a lot of Bellatrix/Voldemort in this one so stay with me. ^^ 
> 
> As always, thank you for all the feedback and support!

The whole situation with Andromeda was cause and effect. Voldemort taught Bellatrix the Dark Arts in an effective fashion. An effective teaching method necessitated painful lessons. Bellatrix returned from them, fascinated and bewitched, with broken ribs or broken wrists or gashes down her side. Andromeda, who was invested in little else beyond her sisters, gradually became incensed.

  
Anger is caused by pain. It is a defensive reaction that directs people to lash out at whatever is harming them. That does not mean it is a sensible reaction or one conducive to success. By contrast, fear is much saner than rage. A fearful little girl, for instance, doesn’t do reckless things when someone hurts her sister. A fearful little girl would never plot to murder an immortal master of magic.

  
Honestly though? Sanity is something the Blacks experience only in brief, distinctly _finite_ windows. That’s why they’re so entertaining.

  
The year 1966 dwindled and froze into nothingness. On the surface, the Wizarding World remained the same. In hidden rooms and secret places however, power began to shift. Alliances were drawn then slowly replaced by vows of fealty. As Voldemort’s circle of friends and associates proved themselves effective, sympathizers of their cause flocked to them. It started out slowly and gently with obstacles being removed. Proponents of muggle rights began to die mysteriously in accidents. Meanwhile, Voldemort prepped his foundation.

  
Bellatrix brought him young talent. He taught them periodically, determining how their potential could best be put to use. In this way, he got to know the up and coming generation. He became their resource, connecting them with people who could help them and information that could empower them. He got into their heads and their hearts. It was the usual process.

  
As for his clever apprentice, a sharpness began to infuse her demeanor. Her keen, gray eyes could pick out weaknesses in both the mind and the body. She saw for no reason other than to identify openings she could exploit. Her reflexes were instantaneous. Her comprehension of magic was thriving. Her resonating magical potential was finally being tapped.

  
He looked at her and was entranced by what she would someday become. The quickness with which she absorbed his instruction was every mentor’s dream. He found more and more opportunities to meet her during holidays and weekends. He couldn’t leave her be when there was more still to teach. She was priceless raw material being formed into a flawless final product. She was herself but she was also his delightful work of art.

  
Andromeda, in the gentler flow of her daily life, worried sparingly. When the warning signs are few, it takes time to form a conclusion. Thus winter ended, followed by spring. Her violent protective instincts were not irreparably triggered until the days leading up to summer. After half a year of minor strain and injury, the toll of Bella’s apprenticeship became apparent.

  
This memory begins, once again, with mirror-gazing. Andromeda was combing her hair, already swathed in a white nightgown. The atmosphere of the dormitory was subdued, her roommates either sleeping or studying by wand light. Andy dragged a carved, wooden brush over and over through her thick, curling hair. Her eyes stayed fixed on her reflection but her thoughts wandered far. She’d taken to doing this of late- sitting here, thinking.

  
Where was Bella? Not in the dorm. What was the Family planning? They were always planning. Was Cissy happy and well? How could Andy get more entertainment out of the mudblood, Ted Tonks? And what was Bella doing right now? What was Bella hiding? Where was Bella?

  
A step behind her put a smile on her lips. It was a habit of the sisters’ to find each other in the evenings. Whoever came up to bed latest would find the other two in one of their three dorm rooms. Andy had returned first to hers. That left Bellatrix to come home to Slytherin House and meet her.

  
It was Narcissa standing there in the shadows, however, not Bella. Andy’s smile stayed fixed in place. Still, something in her heart ached and the questions whispered again. Where? Where? Why so late?

  
“Cissy,” the older of them greeted warmly. “Is everything alright? There’s no one troubling you, is there?”

  
“You always assume the worst,” Cissy noted primly. “It makes me wonder if you don’t love a reason to terrorize your underclassmen.”

  
The youngest sister was soft-spoken and composed. Compared to Bella and Andy, she was strikingly level-headed. It puzzled Andy that someone who was so often the target of machination and envy could seem so calm.

  
Cissy moved to stand behind Andromeda’s chair and took the brush out of her hands. Absently, she began running it through Andy’s curly mane. She hummed quietly as she did so, a small smile on her lips. Andy watched her face in the mirror. She was really far too lovely. It was obvious that she was a gem. Andromeda highly doubted any wizard in their society- no matter how well-bred, reputable and rich- deserved to have her little sister. If a betrothal did manage to survive Andy and Bella’s sabotaging, Cissy would have to dearly love the man. If not, Andy was going to murder him. Bella would help. They’d hide it somehow. The thought of Cissy roped together with some unworthy wretch was just intolerable.

  
“You’re thinking something reckless again,” Cissy called her out, setting the brush aside. She began to plait Andy’s hair, a technique she insisted made it tamable.

  
“No, love, I was thinking very reasonable things,” Andy assured her smoothly. “Anyone would agree with me: you’re too good for this world and no one deserves you.”

  
Cissy smiled, as if in spite of herself. “I think you may have a bias,” she chided though her face had colored a bit. “Is this about marriages again? Future plans?”

  
“Let’s run away, the three of us, and go live in France,” said Andy sensibly.

  
“That’s not a bad plan,” said Cissy. “There’s a fairly nice family there with three, unmarried sons. One for each of us. We’ll have the perfect excuse then to live together indefinitely.”

  
“And if the brothers get annoying, we can lock them in the basement,” Andy finished brightly.

  
“Drastic,” said Cissy, braiding Andy’s hair calmly, “but yes.” She gave a quiet hum under her breath. “It would be nice to live far away from…this social environment.”

  
“What environment, love?”

  
Cissy did not raise her dark eyes from her work but her mouth twisted again. “This brutal, predatory culture. The endless line of relatives waiting to utilize the children. I want a child. What I don’t want is a hoard of great-aunts and uncles deciding its fate.”

  
“You’ll be a wonderful mother, Cissy,” Andy praised her adoringly, her brain suddenly filled with images of angel-faced babies. “Your children will all be just as beautiful as you.”

  
“Are you even listening to me?” Cissy asked with a huff. There was a subtle passion in the words she spoke. “I’m saying our family raises children _badly_. Take for instance when Bella went off to Hogwarts that first year. You’d spent three years beforehand studying so that you could skip a form and join her. Then when Dumbledore denied your request, you shrieked. You wept. You threw things. You sat by the window for days, refusing to eat. And what did Mother do? She sat in a rocking chair and flicked stinging hexes at you until you finally relented. It never once crossed her mind to console you!”

  
Andy paused and considered for a moment. Then she shrugged dismissively and shot Cissy a vividly sweet smile. “No matter; that’s what sisters are for! I’ve never felt unloved a day in my life. By the by, who are these French brothers? Will it be easy to poison them?”

  
“Do you ever think about anything other than violence and how very marvelous we are?” asked Cissy shortly.

  
Andy considered again. “You know, I don’t think I’m terribly violent. I mean, just yesterday, Bella-”

  
“It’s obviously no contest if we’re comparing you to _Bella!_ ”

  
“Are you cross with me for something? I haven‘t hexed, charmed or poisoned anyone this week!”

  
“It would be lovely if you worried less about the little, tiny things that people say,” Cissy answered, “and viciously avenging them. It would be nice if you’d stop taking risks for the sake of your own deranged amusement. At least Bella has a specific destination in mind. You simply follow this rambling list of capricious whims. I get worried sick for you.”

  
She finished the braid with a crisply-tied ribbon. Then she moved into Andy’s line of sight, leaning her hip on the vanity.

  
“Let’s stay focused,” she pleaded, seizing Andy’s hands. Her expression was earnest, tugging the strings of Andy’s heart. “Before you do something, ask yourself if it’s necessary. Ask if it will help.”

  
“Cissy,” Andromeda soothed, shaking her head.

  
“We have everything we want,” Cissy entreated, “remember? This, right here, is everything that we want. Staying together is the only thing we want.” She looked down, exhaling heavily. She closed her eyes. “All I’m saying is that we mustn’t sacrifice rationality for the sake of impulse. When I see a precipice, I can warn you. What am I to do, however, if you’re not inclined to listen?”

  
From a purely objective standpoint, Voldemort would have to agree with Narcissa. Perhaps the youngest of the Sisters Black felt helpless to sway the decisions of Bellatrix and Andromeda. Perhaps she ultimately concluded that they reaped what they sowed with their wild natures. For some reason, however, he has always been entranced by the unconditional devotion of the elder two. They went over many precipices throughout their lives. It was always for the sake of someone they loved. It was always done without hesitation.

  
Narcissa is quite right about rationality. She’s irrefutably correct about sense.

  
Why then is madness so beautiful?

  
Even now, he doesn’t know. Andromeda, for her part, thought absolutely nothing of her sister’s advice. She was ever a resolute witch and doubt was a stranger to her. She went to bed, day dreaming of ways to play with her unwitting, muggleborn toy. In between these fancies, like bookends, she worried about Bella. She was woken, two hours later, by Bella’s bloody fingers on her arm.

  
“Andy,” the eldest sister whispered in the dark, “can you help me pick the broken glass out of my shoulder?”

  
Andy rose mutely, lit a candle and followed Bella to the girls’ lavatory. She set the candle down on the sink. She lit more in the bathroom sconces with a flick of her wand. In this unreliable light, Bella peeled off bloodied robes, a gray vest and her shirt. The wounds were all over her left shoulder blade, trailing down her upper arm. Bits of glass stuck out of her skin here and there. She’d spelled out the ones near her neck but she clearly could not reach the rest.

  
“They could fix this instantly in the Hospital Wing,” said Andy in a toneless voice.

  
“No, no, it’s not that severe,” Bella dismissed, smiling in the candlelight.

  
Andy tapped her wand on her sister’s ragged back, easing the first shard out. Had Bella fallen onto a glass cabinet? Or had she fallen on glass that was broken already? Andy studied the tears and the punctures, her gaze so hard she thought her eyeballs might have turned to stone.

  
She gently used magic to pull another glass shard out, dropping it onto the side of the sink. Blood began to ooze from the wound. She muttered a healing charm under her breath, slowing the flow, coaxing it to congeal. That was one puncture down. There were enough of the wounds left to last an hour. Andromeda repeated the process.

  
After a while, her mind compiled enough observations to make an analysis. “You didn’t fall,” she stated, extracting another glass shard- sharpest side pointing inward- from Bella’s flesh. “These shards were launched at you. Like daggers.”

  
This was not to say that telekinetically shooting a group of glass shards at a target was easy. In fact, Andromeda could not immediately think of how it could be done. The wounds were clustered together so the glass too must have been clustered. A charm that could move so many separate objects in a free, tactical way…it boggled the mind to think of it.

  
“Who did this?” asked Andy simply.

  
It didn’t really matter what name Bella gave her. Whoever it was would face death the moment Bellatrix revealed their identity. Andromeda would never waste time asking herself if she was capable of murder. She was. She’d always known she was. The rage was like music in her brain, a deafening symphony that conducted her movements. In this state, she could kill with her bare hands.

  
_No one_ hurt Bella. No one should dare.

  
So when Bella said nothing, Andy repeated, “who did this?” She picked glass out methodically, never slowing her movements. _“Who did this?”_ she hissed viciously in Bella’s ear. “Who did this?” She put a shard down on top of a growing, blood-tinged pile. “Tell me now. Who did this?”

  
Bella exhaled in a gust. “I shouldn’t have woken you,” she muttered, admonishing herself. “What the blazes was I thinking? Of course you’d overreact.”

  
“Have you seen your back?” Andy snapped, fury wrenching at her chest.

  
“I was practicing dueling,” Bella explained, a slightly breathless note entering her voice. In the bathroom mirror, Andy could see her dark eyes gleaming- as if even speaking of it stirred her blood. “I simply messed up a little toward the end. Oh, but you would not believe the things I’ve learned how to do! My teacher makes everything we learn at Hogwarts look like a _joke!_ ”

  
“So,” Andy concluded icily. “It was this teacher of yours. And he sent you home like this? Didn’t bother to patch you up after your little lesson?”

  
“But this is nothing, Andromeda,” Bella recited, gently patronizing. “Look how worked up you’re getting. It’s not as though I can’t walk. I didn’t even lose any blood.”

  
“Well, no, dear heart,” Andy returned with scathing sweetness, “because the glass sticking out of your shoulder blade is holding it in.”

  
“Oh, Andy,” Bella crooned, “you’re such a mother hen.”

  
Andy bared her teeth and picked out some more glass. Bella laughed a little to herself and then began talking about her Charms O.W.L. Andy completely tuned her out, letting the airy words dissolve into white noise. This whole moment was white noise, a far away scene displaced by fury. The only thoughts Andy was able to hold in her head were of finding Bella’s teacher and hurting him.

  
By the time she finished patching her sister up, she was pale as a sheet and shaking with hate.

  
Andromeda’s reaction over the next several days, of course, did not go unnoticed by Bellatrix. Bella went to reassure her. She explained how Voldemort had warned her of the hardships involved. She explained that every bit of adversity was worth it ten times over. Bellatrix had no doubts. With bright, happy eyes and a dazzling smile, she chipped away at Andy’s anger. By the time school was coming to an end, Andromeda was willing to forgive a bit of broken glass.

  
The glass, however, was only the start.

  
  
o0O0o

 

Bellatrix no longer perused the shops of Hogsmeade, passing the hours until her lesson’s appointed time. She ran through the early summer heat, hair tied messily up in a bun and her loose-flowing robes billowing around her. She pelted down the road all the way from Hogwarts and she did not slow until she reached her destination. She stood by the little house’s locked door, gasping for breath. Then she waited as long as it took for her teacher to arrive.

  
The heat and the exertion were trifles. What spoke volumes of Bellatrix’s hunger for her lessons was that she didn’t care if anyone _saw her_ running headlong through town.

  
Over the course of his life, Voldemort had caused many people to adore him. How much a person liked him was the direct result of what he said and did. Therefore, their opinion of him was completely under his control. He perceived what they wanted, he configured it to his angle and then he wrapped them around his finger. He could create anything from momentary infatuations to deep, intricate friendships. The reason the Lestrange brothers were so loyal to him was because he always fed them a persona. He wore a custom mask sculpted and painted just for them.

  
Bellatrix’s enthusiasm, however, was something of a novelty. Thus far, he had not misrepresented himself. He was giving her exactly the instruction he’d promised. He wasn’t faking any emotions he didn’t feel. He held synthesized compliments and praises on the tip of his tongue, ready to encourage her if she began to falter. He had all sorts of words with which to persuade the reluctant. Bella did not falter though. She never broke pace. Correspondingly, the praises he did deliver were genuine.

  
He told her he was impressed because she impressed him.

  
Because he lied more often than he breathed, Voldemort found theirs to be an unusually genuine relationship. More unusual was how much he enjoyed it. On top of Bellatrix being every teacher’s dream- an ambitious, focused and intelligent pupil- she was hilarious. With a killer mix of spontaneity and viciousness, she kept breaking his pre-planned demeanor and making him laugh. For instance,

  
“Don’t forget to practice wandless reflexes, Bella.”

  
“Of course, master. I should have an hour or so once I’ve taught the doorknob of our new Transfiguration teacher’s office to bite.” Then she’d paused to explain, “she keeps making Andy partner with mudbloods and the like during assignments.”

  
Or another time, as he explained that muggles were dangerous because of their numbers.

  
“I’m sure _you_ know a spell that could kill them all, master,” she’d said earnestly. “It’s pest removal- like killing doxies!”

  
Voldemort had a dark and possibly twisted sense humor, he admitted. Bellatrix Black resonated with it perfectly. Even the most old-fashioned witches and wizards danced around the subject of violence, seasoning their plots with delicate euphemisms. Bella got right to her point: _just kill them_. It was hysterically funny. It was refreshing.

  
At this point in time, it seemed as though his plan was a perfect success. Teacher and student got along seamlessly. Bella adored the Dark Arts. He had a new favorite toy. What else was there to say?

  
It had not registered in Voldemort’s brain that the hunger in her eyes was for him.

  
“I am not suggesting that you suppress your wish to inflict pain,” he was telling her one day.

  
The previously empty classroom had accumulated a bit of clutter. There was a bookcase, a desk, a glass cabinet and a number of random knickknacks. He stood with his back to Bellatrix but he knew she was hanging on his every word. She always did.

  
“Your anger is justified,” he continued. “The world fails to meet your standards and in so doing, fails itself. We have a great deal of work to do if we are to one day correct this. For that reason specifically, your impulses are needed. Do not suppress them.” He lifted one hand in warning. “However, first you must consider where your efforts are best applied. Assess your target’s weaknesses. Choose the method and the approach that will inflict the most pain. This analytical process is just a habit you can teach yourself. Incorporate it into your emotional responses. Think before you act- not to deny yourself but to enhance your efficacy.”

  
Then without changing his tone in the slightest- indeed, without giving the slightest warning sign at all- he spelled the desk to splinter into a hundred, jagged fragments. The fragments, of course, he sent hurtling towards his student.

  
Voldemort divided his lessons into several areas. He started with the basics of each and gradually increased the difficulty. There was magical theory, there was essential spells, there was mental defense, there was exercising that fulcrum of power within a spell caster and lastly, there was the matter of honing reflexes. Reflexes were only developed by unexpected hardships. Thus, he endangered his apprentice at random intervals.

  
The only reason he had placed objects in this room was so that he could throw them at her. Once she became very skilled at deflecting objects, he’d start throwing bone breaking hexes. Then he’d mix the two together.

He had it all planned out and scheduled, of course.

  
Bellatrix got up a shielding charm just in time, whirling to face the barrage of broken wood. He sent more from different directions, forcing her to go on the offensive. His apprentice commenced an intricate dance of attack and parry. She flung corroding curses at the wood, causing it to dissolve midair. Then she shielded herself again. After a while, she got clever and fired a stunning jinx at him. He deflected it without turning around, smiling out the window. How cheeky. The strategy was sound though; why attack the projectiles when she could attack the person sending them?

  
This wasn’t a duel though. It was a lesson.

  
They progressed in that manner for some time. Occasionally, Voldemort would cease his assault in favor of offering tips. He corrected her mindset and her tactics. He gave her insights. Then, still in the middle of speaking, he’d spell an hourglass to come hurtling across the room at her head.

  
She successfully deflected his attack once more. She’d gotten used to his method. When he’d first started it up, she’d left with quite a few injuries.

  
He finished their lesson by using legilimency to attack her mental shields. This maneuver caused Bellatrix to go still, her expression turning blank. The process was too new to her. She could not maintain occlumency without pause the way she could in later years. He did not press at her mind for the sake of getting through however. Instead, he tested her defenses. His magic licked at her shields, a gentle pressure at first, then a striking force against her weakest front. She held him at bay though just barely. Not a minute passed before blood began spilling out her ear.

When she left, her eyes were glassy. She walked slowly back to school, cuts on her arms and legs where the splinters had reached her.

 

o0O0o

 

Malfoy Manor is not perfectly quiet before dawn. Peacocks emit haunting keens every now and then, punctuating the gloom. Nagini is downstairs in the drawing room, whispering to herself _, dissolve, disintegrate, become the strength that fuels me._ Voldemort has never understood her habit of talking to the prey she's digesting. Maybe Charity Burbage's soul lingers still, trapped within Nagini's constricting insides.

As for him, he is still in the Lestranges' suite, lying in Bella and Rod's bed.  
  
He somehow managed to fall asleep with a witch tangled around him. It was a reckless lapse of caution. Only vastly predatory things survive in the Death Eaters’ society. Only the most violent and clever excel enough to get close to him- and quite literally, no one is closer than Bellatrix.

  
Fear keeps her at bay. Want drives her closer. His indulgence of late has given her confidence. That’s why she dares to reach for more. That’s why she hunts him. In the night, she has threaded herself through his limbs. She has caged him in her arms. He awakens to the feel of her lips tracing his jaw line.

  
She moves slowly. She drags her mouth over his chin, leaving only the gentlest pressure. She prevails upon his half-conscious state and lightly caresses his chest. Her eyelashes brush his cheek when she kisses him, still so painstakingly soft. Her lips tremble but not from hesitation. Her whole body shudders with want- not to simply feel him but to touch him herself. She shakes from the effort of controlling this hunger. She has to let it out, little by little, and make the most of this chance.

  
She doesn’t want him to wake.

  
Indeed, Voldemort does not let people touch him. Holding her in his arms is one thing. Motionlessly allowing himself to be poked and prodded is something else entirely. He despises the sensation. Despite acquiring near-omnipotent power and assaulting the Wizarding World, he remains shaped by his past. As a child, being touched meant being kicked. It meant being grabbed harshly by the ear or the shoulder. It meant being flung bodily into his room and if he hit the floor, no matter. It meant someone trying to seize his arm or strike him.

  
By the time any living person wished to touch him gently, he had already learned that _touch is unpleasant_.

  
Now and then, allowing himself to be touched is necessary. He has never once enjoyed it. He does not enjoy it now. He quits the haziness of sleep and he hones his focus slowly. Bella tries to coax him, eyes radiating darkness, insistent lips plying his. Her tongue dips shallowly into his mouth, finding him pliant. She exhales tensely, writhing closer, hand sliding down to his stomach.

  
Is this one of her moods? Or could she really be so fearless?

  
He nips her lower lip and not lightly- a warning. She draws back but only by an inch. She could be drugged, the way she looks at him. She could be a shrike trying to impale difficult prey on a thorn. The world lives in terror of this witch for a reason. She always gets what she wants. She gets it even if it takes her decades.

  
Just look at them now. Did he ever intend for something like this?

  
“I believe you have a story to tell me,” Voldemort reminds her in a very quiet voice. His words fall on her parted lips. He’s not entirely certain, however, that she hears them.

  
She leans in again, so softly. “It’s early,” she says. The statement traces itself against his mouth.

  
He allows her to kiss him for a moment because he is, in fact, drowsy. Waking in her bed has left him relaxed and unusually content. The games of last night satisfied immensely: terror, torture, opportunists vying for power. Then there was her, unstoppable, panicked and finally lulled. He enjoyed her to the fullest. Indulgent, he accepts her kiss, her closeness, her tongue - if only for a moment.

  
Then he bites her again. “Off,” he orders when she frees his mouth.

  
She only looks at him, blood beading on her lip. Does she even notice the pain of it? Her fingers are splayed across his chest, nails pressing lightly into his skin. Internally, he sighs. She is getting out of hand.

  
“I could,” Bellatrix tries in the scarcest whisper, coaxing so dearly, “I could please you. I _live_ to please you.”

  
“Do you really think I’ll swallow that?” he says sweetly back. “You live to please yourself.”

  
It’s a cutting observation and probably an accurate one. Bella is clever though, even with her eyes pitch black and glittering possessively. She merely turns his words around.

  
“Pleasing you pleases me.”

  
“Then please us both by respecting my wishes.”

  
“Would it not be more pleasurable, master, if I expressed my respect for _you?_ ”

  
She’s not afraid. In that split second, Voldemort feels something immense. He uses fear to control Bellatrix but fear distances her from him. There is no fear in her now. They are physically close and suddenly they are mentally close as well. He has been freezing alone- in fragments- for decades. Abruptly, she is right in front of his eyes, keeping pace with his wit, not daunted at all.

  
He can’t have missed this desperately. He’s never had it. At best, she has startled laughter out of him while he decided how to manipulate her. Is that a friendship? Could that be described as intimacy? The yearning he feels is brittle; it cuts him from within as it splinters.

  
Bella perceives his hesitation and instantly exploits it.

  
She goes for nerve points, kissing the base of his throat. Perhaps she hazards that she still has a chance of enticing him. The method she chooses is a persuasive one. Her hands run down his torso like velvet-lined knives. This is the nightmare of lambs. Of the living beings she touches, nearly all find torment. Perhaps he will too. If she traces his shape, could she notice the hairline fractures that riddle his being? He considers in silence. She drags her mouth down over his ribs, exhaling against his skin.

  
The feeling does not entice him. It’s distant sensory data, so removed for the moment as to be meaningless. He forgets about it.

  
Voldemort has blanked out, snared in his own thoughts. He endeavors to force his emotions into clear-cut lines. She touches him covetously and kisses his stomach. It’s as though his inner footing has slipped. He stares at the ceiling; she nuzzles the hollow of his hip. He grapples with the chasm in his chest; she holds him.

  
Bellatrix has reached a state where fear does not restrain her. Voldemort has reached a state where he cannot induce fear with words. He fights his way back from his abstraction, reasserting his awareness of the situation. Before he is completely secure however, he must regain control of her- and if words do not work, he’ll use force.

  
His spell pushes her back, burning her greedy hands. Her body does not go far, tossed gently across the bed. He makes sure however that his magic scalds her. She hisses and cradles her blistered palms to her chest. Rejected, she sits on her side of the bed, knees drawn up beneath her naked frame.

  
She’s pretty when she’s mussed- like a china doll with untamable hair. Her bruises are pretty. Her lip is red and swollen from his bites. The way that she stares back at him should be more dissuaded than it is.

  
“You have a story to tell me, Bella,” he says again.

  
“Of course,” she breathes but she does not so much as blink. She watches him closely, that dangerous glint in her eyes. Her stillness itself is a warning sign. He does not need legilimency to guess. If Bellatrix thought for a second that she could best him in magic, she’d try it. She would force him down and use spells to hold him still. Failing that, she’d use chains. The impulse is painted on her face.

  
“Master,” she cajoles, her voice hushed, “is there nothing I can get for you first? A drink, some breakfast, a bath…?”

  
He realizes then that she _is_ trying it. Her fingers are tracing a wordless, wandless spell in the sheets beside her. She has always been so gifted with ancient runes. He feels the binding creeping up around him, trying to drag him back into sleep.

  
She would have done better to go for her wand. Raw emotion is powerful but lacking in finesse. That has always been the difference between Bellatrix and him. She burns magic. He breathes it.

  
He diffuses her binding without uttering a word. Shreds of magical power ripple and distort the air, drifting as they’re cut away. He calmly sits up. Bella’s eyes widen a fraction but still hold his gaze so intently.

  
“I want the story you promised me,” he reiterates, “…but perhaps we must dress and have a duel instead?”

  
She has the gall to let her gaze drop from his eyes to his mouth. This level of fearlessness is really too much. He cannot allow it.

  
“You assume I will not hurt you,” he murmurs. The gentleness of his tone hides a hidden edge. “You are correct. I will not punish your transgressions in a way that could harm our child. But there is nothing at all to stop me from dragging your sister by the hair from her bed and cutting her face up in front of you.”

  
This is the message that reaches her. She pales, brought out of her possessive desires and back into the sanity of fear. She hunches, inching back and ducking her head.

  
Her mood lifts just like that. The blackness of her eyes lessens. Toxic magnetism cannot coexist with rationality.

  
“Forgive me, my lord, please, I wasn’t- fully awake,” she says quickly, rising from the bed. It’s like she has come out of a daze. She looks disorientated. She finds her wand on the bedside table and dresses herself with a flick of it. He notices a tremble in her hands. “I lost my head. I had dreams. I-”

  
“Be careful,” he warns her, barely whispering the threat.

  
He wills his robes to settle around him like smoke. It’s only natural that this should happen. The downside of controlling people with charisma is that it sometimes works too well. Of his followers, a small percentage are always obsessed with him- and they frequently are the ones with talent.

  
Bella is in a league of her own, of course. She’s sharper and compelling and simply more. Against all odds, she and the brothers are finally managing to ensnare him…or so it seems to them. This morning, she opened her eyes and saw the quarry of her decades-long hunt asleep in her nest. What predator could resist?

  
“I suppose a talk is overdue,” decides Voldemort after a beat. He leans back against Bella’s pillows. He watches her back, the cascade of her curling hair in the morning light. “There is no need whatsoever for us to lie with each other like this. That we continue to do so speaks for itself. Wouldn’t you say we’ve become lovers?”

  
Bella glances sharply at him, her eyes wide and uncertain. He throws trick questions at people all the time. It is never safe to presume and she of all people understands as much.

  
She picks the safest response. “I couldn’t say.”

  
“I couldn’t say what else we might call it,” he returns, smiling easily at her. “Who would have thought after all these years? My witty and audacious apprentice. Then again, it is not so surprising. You are now a witch of breathtaking power and exquisite grace.”

  
She flushes and shifts in place, looking down at the floor. He is certain she would cry with joy if only she felt less wary. He leans forward a fraction.

  
“We should discuss this arrangement,” he suggests, “as two adults who respect each other.”

  
“I really don’t know what I was thinking,” she tells him faintly, “just now, when we woke up. I won’t do it again. If you’re angry-”

  
“It would be unfair of me to be angry,” he soothes, never looking away. “You have always known how I hate to be touched. Things changed, however. We decided to become parents. We’ve become so very close. Our current situation makes misunderstandings easy. If we don’t take a moment to clarify to each other exactly what is acceptable, how is the other to know?”

  
Bella lingers where she is for a moment, saying nothing. Then she returns, sitting mutely on the edge of her bed. She stares at the coverlet. “Master, forgive me,” she repeats plaintively. “I’ll remember next time that- that you hate it.”

  
“I don’t think it’s particularly tasteful to try to force your lover with spells either,” he adds softly, “when they have expressly denied consent. I would never, for instance, insist that you allow me to read your mind. I would like to, certainly. I get terribly curious. But I know you are not comfortable with the idea. I will not ask you to endure discomfort for a reason as trifling as my own pleasure.”

  
“I didn’t think it would happen again,” she admits. She blinks several times. She can’t seem to move her eyes from the bed. “I don’t know how to…tempt you. I don’t know how to be someone you could want. But you held me. There must be something…” A few rapid breaths shake her frame. Then she asks him in a whisper, “do you mean it?”

  
“Do I mean what?”

  
She hesitates a fraction. “That you might…wish to…”

  
Of course. From her perspective, that first week they spent in each other’s arms was the result of her lie- that she was not yet pregnant. When he allowed her entrance into his room, she assumed she’d successfully deceived him. Why else would he have accepted it? Then last night, after weeks apart, he used intimacy to extract information from her. She saw her chance and, desperate for it, agreed to tell him a damning secret.

  
She doesn’t know how he has craved her. He isn’t about to explain.

  
Cleavage and sultry voices don’t tempt him, it’s true. How could he muster interest in something so common? In fact, it is Bella’s displays of emotion- fear, fury, want or vivacity- that seem to compel him the most. He does not stare at her hips. He stares at the flutter in her throat. He prefers her heart and her lungs to the soft flesh encasing them. The only physical trait of hers that he can never ignore is her hair.

  
It’s constantly enticing him to seize it, to wind his fingers through it.

  
He is not about to tell her that either. Being wanted is strength and wanting is weakness. He’ll admit that their dalliance should continue but giving her a guide to his unusual appetites? That would be terribly ill-advised.

  
“I do wish it,” he confirms, reaching out to tuck a curling lock of hair behind her ear. He taps her wrist next, healing her blistered palms. She shudders, eyes going half-lidded as she leans into his touch. “Forgive me, Bella, I should have said so plainly. You wouldn’t have felt the need to attack me if I had been more clear. This is not the last time. We will have plenty of time together.”

  
Bella stares at him mutely, looking too moved for words. This is how it’s done, isn’t it? If he says kind and supportive things, won’t this be a wholesome relationship? He can forgive her a few minor infractions. It takes so little effort to render her manageable again. She has the promise of his future attention to appease her. He has his space. He leans forward and kisses her on the forehead, his lips barely brushing her skin.

  
“Go clear your head,” he tells her, “and make sure you eat. When you return, we will talk about your sister.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, the first scene is in spoken anecdote format. Sorry for all the quotation marks. x.x The POVs in this story are actually pretty relevant so I have to be conscientious about delivery. Also, there are lots of details in this one. If you notice anything that's not perfectly canonical, please let me know. Thank you! ^.^ 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your feedback and support.

“I met my sister in the muggle world, two months after you freed me from Azkaban.

  
“This was before the fiasco at the ministry, of course…but after we asked you to be a surrogate father. I was still getting my bearings. Otherwise, I would have gone sooner. Functioning again after fourteen years…well. The simplest tasks were difficult for me. Things like holding a hairbrush I’d once used again could bring me to tears. Then there was sitting in front of a fire. Walking outside in the rain. Eating at a table. I felt like I had either been reborn or I’d gone mad.

  
“It was not exactly joyous- at least, not entirely. It was a sensory overload. It was terrifying and tremendous as much as it was a relief. I had to constantly remind myself where I was. The brothers felt much the same way.

  
“Our appearances had changed very drastically, of course. Out of everything, I must say, this upset me the least. I looked like a corpse and that is exactly how I felt. I looked like a mangled body, reanimated by emotions too fiery to contain. Had I appeared healthy and well, I would not have been able to cope with my new reality. The pain had to be carried and I was obliged to put it somewhere. Why not keep it etched upon my face?

  
“I’m not certain how Rod and Bastan felt; they’d always been so handsome. No matter how well I know them though, I really can’t say. If I didn’t ask them a question or specifically engage them, they did not speak at all.

  
“Sadly, our house was razed to the ground by aurors after our imprisonment. We'd relocated most of our belongings to our vault in Gringotts. The estate, however, was destroyed. Rod and I took a turn around it once we were well enough to go out. Rubble and tatters, that’s what was left. Babby, our house elf, had killed herself. She was a good servant but her mentality was delicate. The sight of her masters’ ancestral home desecrated must have been too much. We found her little corpse in the remnants of the kitchens, a bread knife sticking out of her eye. The poor, wretched creature.

  
“It was a lot to…process. Our house was in ruins and we were ruins of ourselves. At the same time, we had inexplicably come into our hearts’ desire. We’d planned to earn your favor with pivotal victories, biding our time. Instead, we earned it by suffering. No matter how costly, the long-coveted prize was ours. You had returned to us, you had agreed to give us a child. Even after fourteen years, it felt sudden…so sudden…

  
“As for Andy, I’d never intended to leave her disgraced and disinherited. Madness can be treated. Whatever sickness of the mind came over her, she was worth the effort of saving. She refused my overtures before the war. I simply resolved to come back later, after the ignominy of her choices really sank in. Five years. She would endure her lot as a mudblood’s wife for five years and then I would return. Instead, I was barred from her. My words of forgiveness and love were eaten. She lived a decade and a half, never knowing how readily I would have accepted her back.

  
“Still, the outcome was the same. She had lived beneath her station with none of the Family’s money, bound to filth and rejected by society. Surely she abhorred her situation, screaming secretly on the inside. She could only be waiting for me to save her.

  
“At least, those were my thoughts.

  
“I contacted her then the same way I did last night- with blood and memory. We agreed to meet at a little park that evening. I was in hiding and had to be mindful of aurors; at the time, the muggle world was safer.

  
“I arrived first and I hid myself in the shadows. Most muggles don’t go out at night, especially in their residential districts. They hide in their homes like rats, fearing that which stalks the darkness. The park was empty, paved paths and a dinky little playground. There was a lamppost on the street corner. There was a merry-go-round and a swing set. I took a seat. Because my body was still recovering, even standing tired me. That’s what hangs in my mind about that night. Since waking that afternoon, I had done nothing more than dress, apparate and walk over to a swing.

  
“It exhausted me.

  
“I heard their voices before I saw them. They spoke quietly but not quietly enough. I’m used to picking whispers out of the dark- from secret plans to muffled whimpers of pain. Hunted things do better at muting their presence. When there seems to be no danger- or even when danger is uncertain- people forget. That is how my niece conducts herself, first with naivety and then with belated caution. You see, for some unfathomable reason, Andy had brought her daughter along.

  
“I found I was not displeased. After all, did the girl not deserve a chance for salvation?

  
“‘ _Come on_ , mum,’ Nymphadora was saying urgently. Her speech was graceless; there is no other way I can describe it. ‘This is mental. Let’s go back home and I’ll get the Order. Or the Auror Department. Or even Sirius. I don’t care how close you were as kids. The first war should have been enough to convince you that she’s barking-’

  
“‘You will not be telling anyone,’ Andy’s voice returned, calm and smooth. ‘This is Family business. You may accompany me if and only if you behave. Otherwise, return home and _stay there.’_

  
“I confess, my heart leapt. There my sister was on the corner like a dream. How many times had I convinced myself I would never see her again? The memories were nightmares, each stolen and used as poison against me. The horrors bled together until truth was indistinguishable. I thought I knew how we’d parted. It was hard sometimes to be sure. Now and then, illusions of harming Andy popped into my head. Her face replaced those of the wretches I’ve hunted. But I have never injured her, no. These were but nightmares. Phantoms put into my head. Andy would not recoil from me.

  
“I lit up my wand so they would see me. This was still a troubled reunion. I wondered perhaps if there would be distance, if Andy’s defenses would be up. Instead, her eyes fell on me. Her face instantly turned white. She was wrapping her arms around me before I even thought to rise from the swing. Because my bones were so heavy, it took me a moment to return her embrace.

  
“‘Oh, Bella, what have they done to you? Oh, my heart…’

  
“It seemed real enough. But perhaps…perhaps not.

  
“Over Andromeda’s shoulder, I could see her daughter. Dora stood in the lamplight, wand held warily in her hand. She had grown into a surprisingly garish creature. She had muggle clothes on beneath an open robe. Her spiky hair was pink, like Drooble's gum. Still, I thought, she stood like a duelist. I wondered how good she was.

  
“‘Everything is fine now, shh,’ I told my weeping sister, bony hands like splinters on Andy’s back. Her robes were nice. I’d half-expected second hand rags or worse, muggle clothing like Dora’s. I can’t be blamed for the pessimistic notions. After Azkaban, my head was so full of them- so full of every dreadful thing-

  
“But I was glad. I was glad my sister had not been living too wretchedly. What had happened was painful enough. No matter how much grief she causes me, her suffering pains me more still.

  
“‘Well,’ I sighed. I meant to sound bright but my voice had changed. It scraped and rasped like wind through a hollow. ‘Well, I’ve been away for quite some time. I see you haven’t starved to death. Is that Dora’s real face, love, or is she putting one on?’

  
“‘Call me Tonks,’ Dora bade me, seemingly on reflex. She fingered her wand in an edgy sort of way.

  
“Did she think I would instantly demean her with her filthy father’s name? Well, I’d known dozens of half bloods who were insecure about their status. Dora would always be tainted by her mother’s mistake. Still, I didn’t intend to rub it in her face. She could still redeem herself and she deserved to have the opportunity.

  
“‘Please, dear,’ I soothed, ‘I’m not about to insult you. You are not to blame for your circumstances and, however estranged, I remain your aunt.’

  
“Andy released a dry chuckle against my shoulder but said nothing.

  
“‘Mum, this isn’t a lark,’ Dora entreated. ‘Come away from her.’

  
“‘My daughter is spirited,’ Andy told me, ‘like dancing bluebell flames. And she never wears her real face, no. She takes too much after our side in looks. She thinks it gives people the wrong idea about her personality. Isn’t she darling?’

  
“‘You oughtn’t let her traipse about in those dirty muggle rags,’ I pointed out. It felt like reminding Andy which way the sky was. Nevertheless, it clearly needed to be said.

  
“Andy, like the mad thing she was, only laughed her dry chuckle once more.

  
“She drew away then and looked at me. Her face twisted in anguish. ‘Oh, tell me your suffering is at its end, Bella. It is hard to even see you now.’

  
“‘Yes, my heart, yes,’ I assured her at once. ‘All is well again. And,’ I drew a deep breath, trying to quell the sudden writhing of my heart, ‘you may come home now. Both of you.’

  
“‘Go home? With _you?_ ’ Dora exclaimed, eyes wide with alarm. ‘Fat bleeding chance!’

  
“Andy flashed me a positively angelic smile. Then she echoed her daughter- like a parrot. ‘Indeed, fat bleeding chance.’

  
“I was tired. I curled one hand around the chain of the swing and hung mildly off my arm. It was easier to raise an eyebrow at Andy than to open my mouth and speak. My face belonged to a wraith but perhaps we could still communicate wordlessly. These looks had been our secret code as children.

  
“‘Being with you again is all I‘ve wanted, Bella,’ Andy clarified, gently but with cruel, unreadable eyes, ‘but there is a parasite living where you live. Before you and I can be together, we must remove it.’

  
“I did not see what she meant right away. Her brain had become a mystery to me, twisted and deranged as it was. I do believe she is quite sick. That is the only explanation. Please…forgive her senselessness, master. The horrible things she’s said and done are not her fault. She’s not right in the head.

  
“‘Don’t taunt me with riddles, Andy,’ I told her. ‘You must resent me for abandoning you for so long. Please, I never meant to. It was not by my will. I know how much you must have suffered. I would have returned to you much sooner if I’d been able. Let’s not prolong your misery. I will take you back now. We are the only ones left of the Family…I can revoke your disinheritance the moment you concede. Go home. Kill the mudblood. Pack your things.’

  
“‘Mum,’ Dora warned her mother. ‘She’s mental.’

  
“Andy glanced back at Dora. ‘Hers is the perspective I grew up with,’ she explained, still in that horridly calm voice. How could she be calm? ‘You’ve never set foot in that sort of world. You cannot possibly realize how generous she’s being. If our Aunty Walburga was still alive, she’d likely start shrieking and throwing things at Bella for the mere suggestion of forgiveness.’

  
“‘Throwing things, Andy?’ I scoffed. ‘She’d curse me to wither where I stand. Let her rot in the ground, the old hag. I paid her her due- and then some.’

  
“Andy laughed. The sound was so bright, beautiful and rich that it stung my ears. I hated her just a little bit then. She had no right to make light of me now. I’d never been prone to doubt but Azkaban taught it to me. Thus, I considered terrible possibilities in my head. Perhaps Cissy was right, perhaps this was hopeless…

  
“‘I’ll accept your offer, Bella,’ Andy said then.

  
“I drew a short breath, feeling energy return to me. I rose from the swing, delight leaving me buoyant. ‘You will! Thank Morgana, oh-’

  
“‘I’ll come home as soon as you kill the parasite.’”

  
“I quieted and stilled. What was she saying? I couldn’t parse it. ‘What,’ I said. ‘What parasite?’

  
“‘You know which,’ Andy hissed. She angled her jaw sharply, her dark eyes ever more dangerous. ‘What? Hasn’t he told you how to kill him yet? Haven’t you figured out how he revived himself, how he was destroyed, how he fell in the first place? From the outside, it is impossible to see his weaknesses. You, however, are the closest to him of all.’

  
“That’s when I realized she was speaking of you. I struck her at once. My hand cracked across her cheek, sending her stumbling backward. My nails left a line of blood beneath her eye.

  
“Dora lifted her wand in a flash, sending a stunner at me. I deflected it without much effort. She was slow, slow like someone who had never been desperate. If nothing else, it answered my questions about her skill. She had much to learn.

  
“‘Don’t, Dora,’ Andy stayed her daughter before we could really start flinging hexes. ‘If anyone else in the world said what I just did to her, I expect she’d flay off their skin. A little slap is nothing.’

  
“‘You’ll get another if you don’t mind your tongue!’ I spat.

  
“‘Yes,’ Andy agreed, her calm freezing over. Her next words came biting and frigid. ‘It seems, after all, that I am not your highest priority. _He_ matters more. And so what if he tortures you for no reason at all?’

  
“‘He doesn’t.’

  
“‘My poor, delusional love,’ Andy crooned to me. ‘I’d say the dementors stole your wits but you lost them long before Azkaban, didn’t you?’

  
“‘You watch what you say,’ I bit out, voice shaking. _‘You watch what you say!’_

  
“‘Mum,’ Dora cried, stepping forward. ‘That’s enough! We need to leave!’

  
“Andy whirled on her however, eyes flashing as she flicked her wand. Dora was knocked backward by her spell, thrown forcefully down onto the roadside. ‘Don’t you dare interrupt me, child!’

  
“‘Now you’re after the girl?’ I exclaimed, my broken voice gone brittle. ‘She’d have manners if you’d bothered to teach them to her!’

  
“‘One cannot make a lioness out of a fawn,’ said Andy softly, her tone so merciless. ‘No matter what you do, it will grow up to be a doe. _So why teach it to hunt?’_

  
“I could not breathe properly. Dora looked about as stunned as I was. We exchanged a wide-eyed glance, each with our irreconcilable brand of dismay.

  
“This outcome felt too cruel to me. It seemed far more likely for you to refuse to give me your child, to give me Meissa. That would have been understandable. But this? Andy delivering an unthinkable ultimatum and refusing to come home? It made no sense!

  
“I decided to leave before the panic took over my lungs. I reached into my pocket and- that is, I…I know I shouldn’t have done it. I’d brought with me a solid gold box that’s been in my vault for years. It had some of my mother’s jewelry, some of the family knives, some bolts of ancient, faerie-made cloth. It had a sum of three million galleons within its enchanted space. It was Andy’s inheritance, packed neatly away. I spelled it back into its normal size, holding it in both hands. Then I shoved it into Andy’s arms.

  
“‘If I cannot have you back,’ I said, ‘then at the very least, I will not lose sleep worrying if you’ve enough coin to live. In fact, I will not worry for you at all.’

  
“‘There was never anything to worry about,’ Andy told me incomprehensibly. The look in her eyes was terrible. ‘I have quite a good job as a healer. I have a spacious house and everything I need. Because I’ve saved over the years, I was even able to pay for Dora’s auror training. Regarding my family life, it never fails to entertain.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Lonely though it is to be the only viper in a doves’ nest, I am content. My sole dissatisfaction is, as ever it will be, the loss of you.’

  
“She held the box back out to me, as if to return it.

  
“I shook my head, turned away and disapparated. I don’t recall sleeping that night or the next. If fourteen years wasn’t long enough then how many? What could I do if she would not concede? These are questions that I still ask myself- but I did not return to her.

“That, my lord, was everything that occurred.”

 

o0O0o

 

Bellatrix holds herself together well, delivering her first anecdote in a removed tone of voice. Toward the end, however, shaky breaths begin to sabotage the narrative. By the time she is relaying the details of her and her sister’s parting, she cannot breathe properly. It occurs to Voldemort that she kept this encounter secret not only because it’s controversial but because it upsets her so much. He watches her closely for a moment. Then he summons a calming draught and gives it to her.

  
They are sitting in the parlor together, bathed in late morning sunlight. Privacy is not an issue today. The Malfoys are giving Voldemort a wide berth. From the moment they spotted him prowling the house, they invented tasks for themselves and scattered. Wormtail remains in the manor, of course. His ideal position is at the boot heels of his betters; he tries not to stray far for long. At the moment, he is downstairs tending the prisoners. Voldemort keeps a fraction of his attention reserved to track the rat’s oily thoughts. He doesn’t trust Wormtail for a second.

  
Focus is not exactly easy though. Bella’s story pulls at his thoughts, waking his curiosity. Voldemort has not seen Andromeda in years. The fierce and unrelenting persona she bore in Bella’s tale is still much steadier than her younger self’s had been. Has time diminished her impulsiveness? Has helplessness to affect her family’s situation produced serenity?

  
It makes him wonder at the recent turn of events- the halfblood girl, the werewolf, the blatant challenge in their union. Andromeda should have warned them, would most certainly have known how quickly they’d become targets. Did she speak and get ignored?

  
…or did she say nothing?

  
Voldemort expected Andromeda to dote on Nymphadora the way she always doted on Narcissa. In retrospect, her analogy is appropriate. Why would she treat a prey beast the same way she treated a younger predator? Andromeda has done nothing to harden her child the way the Blacks fortified her. Nymphadora is a free spirit, unfettered, even spoiled compared to her predecessors. If the metamorphmagus was shocked by her mother’s ferocity the night of the meeting, Voldemort guesses that Andromeda is also, for the most part, a lenient parent.

  
Still, there is something off about it. Andromeda knew he was immortal. She knew he was sure to return. Why did she not prepare her child for the violent future to come? Why _was_ Nymphadora’s stunner too slow?

  
Why is the child of Andromeda Black…so innocent?

  
Voldemort pulls the still-shaking Bellatrix against his side, hushing her absently as he thinks. To solve the puzzle of the Tonks family, he must return to the beginning- the pull that drew Ted and Andromeda together in the first place.

 

o0O0o

  
  
Human beings do not seek intimate relationships because of lust. Even people who are consumed by their primal impulses know sex only lasts a few minutes. Who would devote the hours and hours of time it takes to court potential partners for a brief rush of pleasure? The high doesn’t even last fifteen minutes, much less carry on throughout the day.

  
What truly motivates people- both men and women- to constantly seek the so-called love of others is one thing: a need for self-worth.

  
Men evolved to be competitive, nature’s survival of the fittest ensuring that the strongest specimen would reproduce. Thus, the base instinct of men is to compete with each other and sleep with as many women as possible. Within the confines of society, this instinct manifests as social ranking determined by how many women the man in question has fucked. If the man is a virgin, he perceives himself as inferior. His fellow males eagerly reinforce that perspective. By sneering at his lack of conquests, they are able to assert their own social rank. Because they can assert their rank, they are able to see themselves as valuable.

  
Unlike sexual pleasure, substantiated self-worth pleases every day, all day long.

  
Being a ‘top quality specimen of manliness’ cannot possibly be as gratifying as killing someone with a flick of your finger…but Voldemort has resigned himself to other people’s low standards. This is also one of the reasons he self-identifies as _more_ than a man- as a mind, as an inhuman creature. If this brainless nonsense is what a ‘man’ defines himself by, Voldemort is clearly not one. He has nothing in common with these insects. He is beyond them.

  
Women aren’t any better, of course. They have different instincts from men- the instinct to find a strong and faithful mate who will help them protect their child. This makes them less competitive, in general, but no less in need of validation. Attaining the attention of a male means the woman in question is appealing enough to lure him in. Having the devotion of a lover means she is lovable. It’s basically the same thing.

  
People who go looking for ‘a relationship’ are actually looking for proof of their own value. Being rejected convinces them that they _aren’t_ valuable. Another intimate relationship is the cheapest and quickest solution. Human nature so often smothers human potential. Some individuals do manage to transcend this laughable behavior if they have half a brain and a personality.

  
In Voldemort’s experience, most people possess neither.

  
As a legilimens, Voldemort is privy to the true state of so-called relationships. The average human, even the average witch or wizard, is not perceptive at all. They don’t know how other people think. They don’t know the reasons behind their partner’s actions and words. Instead of trying to solve the puzzle, they project their own desires onto their partner’s face. They assume their partner’s motives concur with their expectations.

  
And why do these ‘immortal bonds of true love’ end up breaking? Because neither of the lovers ever see each other. They see their fantasies right up until life flings the truth in their eyes. _‘Oh, my lover’s not who I thought all this time. Oh, I’ve wasted two decades.’_

  
Such is the lamentable lot of the muggleborn wizard, Ted Tonks. He was never a particularly special person. His good-hearted mischief and enduring sense of humor caught Andromeda’s eye. He did not look back at her, however, and think, ‘ah, what a fierce and vivacious witch! I really appreciate her idle amusement, sharp mind and resolute nature.’ In fact, these characteristics of Andromeda went completely unnoticed by him.

  
What Ted thought when she began to pay him attention was, ‘that unbelievably pretty girl is smiling at me. The girl everyone warned me not to even _look at_ thinks I’m funny!’

  
The attention of Andromeda Black nurtured Ted’s undeveloped sense of self worth. The rumored danger of her family made her appreciation of him even more tantalizing. Thus, he sought to be near her more often. Each positive interaction between them fed his infatuation. Was he infatuated with _her?_ Of course not. How could he be? He had no idea who she was. He was infatuated with the idea of being liked by someone who’d been taught from birth to despise him.

  
And Andromeda _did_ like him. She liked him in the way of a child who was bored with all her other toys.

  
The reason Ted transcended the role of amusement was not because of ‘love’. It was because whimsical little Andy’s life could not remain a game. She was forced by circumstance to seek solace and leverage. She found both in him.

  
“Tell me something funny,” she bade him one afternoon.

  
Summer had come and school was in its last, dwindling weeks. Classes had ended early and the student populace was relaxed. With yesterday’s rain having cooled the sultry weather, most of them were enjoying the outdoors. Out of the way corridors were deserted. No one was there to catch Andy misbehaving. She stood opposite the mudblood, leaning against the wall. She focused on him, letting her world narrow into this single carefree moment.

  
“I wish to be distracted.”

  
“Huh,” Ted mused, frowning at the wall in front of him. He was in the middle of scratching a message onto the stone. He wasn’t using magic to do it either. He was using charcoals- probably filched from his common room fire.

  
His graffiti said, _‘Ballpoint pens better than quills! We march in protest this Tuesday.’_

  
Andy didn’t know what ballpoint pens were or how they were supposed to replace quills. She’d already spent some time on that musing however and was bored with it. She fixed him with her sharp, dark-eyed gaze and waited.

  
“I bet I’m gonna get a higher grade than you on the summer arithmancy homework,” Ted wagered.

  
“Really?” said Andy, her eyes lighting with interest. It was such an outlandish prediction. It stimulated her thoughts. “You’re barely passing that class. What could possibly lead you to make such a claim?”

  
He grinned at her over his shoulder. “My sister bought one of those desktop calculators they came out with last year.” When Andy looked at him blankly, he clarified, “it’s a machine, see? It solves equations for you. Multiplication, long division, square roots, everything.”

  
“Muggles created a machine to solve equations for them?” Andy breathed, reveling in the notion. “Why? They can’t be bothered to train up their minds?”

  
“Nope,” said Ted cheerfully, “and I can’t be bothered either. I bet I’ll have that homework done in an hour. I just wish I could bring the calculator to class somehow without Professor Vector noticing.”

  
“Hide it under your desk?” Andy suggested. She wanted to see him do it. It would be funny.

  
“It’s pretty big though,” Ted grimaced. “About this big.” He held up his hands- which were stained in charcoal- and indicated a square foot of space.

  
“Cast a shrinking charm on it!” Andy commanded eagerly.

  
Ted’s brow knitted. “Every time I try to shrink something, it sprouts feathers,” he confessed, looking perplexed. “I don’t know why. It’s not as though I have that problem in Transfiguration. I’m kind of nervous about how a feathery desktop calculator would look though.”

  
“I’ll shrink it for you then,” Andy dismissed. She had already made up her mind. “Bring it to school next term.”

  
“Alright,” Ted agreed, turning away to hide a grin. “I just have to nick it from my sister. Might be dangerous. I’ll likely show up to school with a black eye or two.”

  
Everything he said led Andy to a new thought, each more interesting than the last. That’s what was so entertaining about him. “Your sister does magic too?”

  
“What?” Ted blinked. “No. She’s majoring in business. She’s a university student.”

  
Andy did not know what university was which of course meant that, “she’s a _muggle.”_

  
“Yeah,” he replied a bit cautiously. Even smitten, he noticed how Andy said ‘muggle’ like it was a dirty word. He fussed at the lines of his graffiti, perfecting the letters.

  
“How could taking something from a _muggle_ possibly be dangerous?”

  
“Well, she’s got a mean right hook,” Ted explained a bit sheepishly.

  
“What’s that?”

  
“A punch,” he clarified, making a fist and swinging it. “She hits.”

  
Andy laughed richly, the sound bubbling up from her chest. It filled the corridor, echoing wildly. “She hits!”

  
Ted flushed, looking away awkwardly. “What of it?”

  
“You can’t cast magic outside of school, of course,” she educated him, “but there are products in Diagon Alley that can help. Or even at Zonko’s in Hogsmeade. I can think of at least a dozen things that could freeze her right in place whenever you needed. A wizard afraid of a muggle! How silly- oh, do you not have the money? I’ll buy some for you. You have to send me a letter detailing _exactly_ how she reacts though.”

  
Ted took in her merry eyes and his blush deepened. He looked somewhat entranced. She got the feeling he would agree to just about anything she suggested.

  
“I guess it’d be fun to play a prank,” he conceded. “I can buy the stuff myself but er…Could we go shopping together?”

  
It was such a naïve question. Andy just smiled at him. He had a pleasant face but at the same time, he looked completely ridiculous. That straw-colored hair and those innocent blue eyes begged to be taken advantage of. Didn’t he know that if they were seen together in public, her family would kill him?

  
Bella, for one, would never tolerate a mudblood sharing her sister’s air. Besides, she might actually know how to get away with murder at this point. The eldest of the Sisters Black had become very powerful of late.

  
That brought Andy back to the thoughts she’d been avoiding in the first place. Her smile fell. Apparently she looked so distraught that even her clueless toy caught on. He tossed down the charcoals, taking an uncertain step closer.

  
“Andromeda?” he said. “Are you alright? Was it something I said?”

  
Andy gave him a wan smile. “I was just thinking of my sister,” she confided softly. “We used to be very close, you see. Lately though, she has begun lying to me. Keeping secrets. This morning, I saw a burn the shape of a hand on her wrist; she never told me about it.”

  
Ted blinked, worry crossing his features. His eyes were so earnest that she knew instantly he was actually concerned for her. It was unfathomable.

  
People this sincere existed?

  
“What, you think someone hurt her?” he said. “Why wouldn’t she tell you?”

  
“She has a sort of…private tutor,” Andy explained, looking up at the ceiling.

  
She didn’t know why she was telling him this. It was like confessing her troubles to a cat. Ted was about as capable of offering help and useful advice as a feline.

  
“His ‘lessons’ often leave her hurt,” she continued, a sneer curling her upper lip. “I thought it was only one time several months ago. Then her sleeve rode up while she was casting a spell at breakfast today. I saw the waxy red skin, blistered and cracked. No, she has been hiding her injuries this entire time. It never stopped. She simply realized that if she keeps his abuses secret, I will not get upset.”

  
“Why doesn’t she tell someone?” Ted asked. It was a predictable response. At the same time, he was completely focused. He genuinely cared. The lack of ulterior motive in his manner imbued him with such a purity. Andy felt the knotted rage and unease in her chest ebb just a bit.

  
“She’s obsessed with him,” Andy murmured, turning it over in her head as she spoke. “I think she loves him.” At Ted’s bewildered expression, she shook her head and smiled. “It will be alright. I’m going to tell the Family once we get home for the summer. They will put a stop to these lessons. They might even chase this teacher out of the country. He’s probably just some _filthy half-blood_ with no family to speak of.”

  
Ted paused a beat, his eyes wide. “Right!” he agreed somewhat too loudly. “Well, that’s good then.”

  
Andromeda burst out laughing. “The look on your face! No, I don’t concern myself with blood purity and the like. It simply makes for a convenient insult. For the people who truly deserve it, you see?” She patted his cheek, laughing again when he ducked his head.

  
“Everyone just says that your family’s, well,” he shrugged, “a bit intense.”

  
“They are,” Andy allowed, eyes dancing, “but I’m not. I’m nice.”

  
It really was so lucky she’d run into Ted today. Ever since she saw the burn on Bella’s arm this morning, she’d been in a murderous rage. Without this ludicrous boy to cheer her, what reckless things might she have done?

  
There would have been corpses. Most surely.

  
Thus school ended and summer vacation began. Andromeda went to the heads of her Family and told them of Bella’s teacher. Regrettably for her, Bella’s teacher got to them first.

 

o0O0o

 

Voldemort was a firm proponent of multitasking, especially regarding long term campaigns. On weekends, he cultivated a network of future followers. On weekdays, he wove himself indirectly into old Wizarding Society. Somebody needed an obscure illness cured or an ancient curse broken. Voldemort, with his knowledge of the world and prodigious skill could do it- for the price of a favor. Somebody needed a political enemy removed. Voldemort’s friends were artists of seemingly-accidental death.

  
He made himself known subtly and showed himself rarely. By the summer of 1967, however, his reputation was both striking and sinister. All the notable families had heard rumors of his skill, his strategy and his effectiveness. The ones who had personally dealt with him could testify; they were the ones who were getting ahead. It was the perfect angle from which to approach the Blacks.

  
Voldemort had chosen to acquire Bella before acquiring sanction from her family. This was because building a reputation took time and in teaching his apprentice, he refused to wait. Beginning her training early meant she could become his weapon all the sooner. Her discretion enabled his timeline. Nonetheless, secrecy was inevitably finite. The amount of skill he was pouring into Bellatrix could not remain unnoticed forever- especially because she evinced it so well. The trajectory of events he’d set in motion obliged him to deal with her uncle.

  
It wasn’t difficult. His contacts set up a meeting and he arrived already knowing what to say. Patient preparation can make even hefty tasks seem trivial. He told a pretty story, seasoned it with flattery- that he’d run into Bellatrix a few times and noticed the raw power of her magic, that the dark potential of her bloodline was perfectly suited to his brand of sorcery, what a benefit she could be to her family with his knowledge...and so on. Naturally, he did not tell Orion Black his plans. He made it sound as though he needed a research assistant, even handing over the notes for some of his more impressive magical projects. After going on enough about offering guidance to the easily misled Wizarding youth, he needed only convince Orion that their priorities aligned.

  
Thus, he spouted rhetoric like, “putting Bellatrix’s fiery temperament to productive use,” and “channeling the girl’s energy into magic so as to enable a more disciplined demeanor.”

  
It was a roundabout way of saying Bellatrix’s family would be able to manipulate her more easily. Voldemort was not exactly lying. If the future went as he intended, she would meet _and_ exceed her family’s expectations. Harmony was all about arranging things the correct way. There was no trouble when everyone thought they were getting what they wanted.

  
His pitch, paired with the good words of Evan Rosier and Rabastan Lestrange, gave Voldemort all the credibility he needed. Orion Black shook his hand on it, invited him to dinner and promptly brought up politics.

  
Thus, on the evening of June 21st, Voldemort found himself in the chaotic House of Black.

  
Orion’s study was quiet. Insulating spells had been cast on the walls to block out excess noise. Voldemort could easily hear the Black’s Head of Family laying out his opinion of current affairs. He was half-listening, picking the occasional tidbit of useful information out of the pomp. His aptitude for legilimency allowed him to focus outside the study on the lively house beyond.

  
He could hear all of their thoughts- Walburga in the tapestry room, Sirius and Regulus in the foyer, Cygnus and Druella visiting from their country manor and their daughters- Narcissa and Andromeda- just back from Hogwarts. Alphard, the only adult Black Voldemort knew well, was traveling and absent. Bellatrix, downstairs with her sisters, was using occlumency.

  
The Blacks were different from each other but at the same time, there were striking similarities in the way they felt and thought. It was like tasting many bottles of wine, each produced in different years and with slightly different characters- but all from the same vine. There was dark vivacity and corrosive anger. There was malicious boredom, vague loneliness and obsessive dedication.

  
Walburga and Cygnus were Alphard’s siblings. They were austere and contemptuous in public. In private, they were passionate- prone to fits of rage, laughter or tension. Orion was consumed by ambition but his impatience prevented him from examining the pieces of his game too closely. Narcissa was a bit like Druella but less self-absorbed and more loving. Regulus was quiet and loyal like Narcissa but shyer and more withdrawn. Sirius reminded Voldemort strongly of Bellatrix. In fact, they had essentially the same personality. If Sirius turned out to be as talented as his cousin, Voldemort planned to bring him into the fold.

  
Then there was Andromeda, agitated as she paced back and forth.

  
“You’ll wear a hole in your auntie’s parlor floor,” said Druella, not looking up from her correspondence.

  
“Who is Uncle meeting with?” Andromeda inquired, sharp eyes sweeping the room. “I wish to speak with him.”

  
“I doubt he’ll have the time for you, dear,” was the absent reply, “he’s a busy man.”

  
In the foyer, eight year-old Sirius Black was gaping at the package he’d just received via owl post from his uncle, Alphard. It was the latest racing broom. Excitement radiated from him like a beacon. The only problem was he didn’t know how to ride an adult’s broom; he’d only ever ridden toy ones. Also, he would have to practice at Cygnus and Druella’s house. Grimmauld Place was smack in the middle of a muggle city. Would they let him floo over?

  
“I think you’re going to fall and break your neck,” said his six year-old brother, Regulus, solemnly.

  
“I think you’re a grindylow,” Sirius shot back.

  
Regulus stared at him. “At least ask someone to teach you how to fly it.”

  
“Grindylow,” said Sirius and quickly left the room.

  
Meanwhile, Andromeda’s sisters were attempting to reason with her.

  
“What’s got you so restless, Andy?” Bella was cajoling, setting a blackberry tart down beside her tea on its saucer. “You’ve been in a mood since we left Hogsmeade Station.”

  
“She’s been in a mood since even before then, I think,” Narcissa noted.

  
Bella’s presence was a blank spot on Voldemort’s map. It was through the other people in the room that he was able to perceive her. Every time Andromeda’s eyes caught on Bella, she grew angrier. Narcissa glanced at Bella and wondered how her elder sister had come to resemble a hunting hawk. Druella ignored them all and read her letters.

  
“You’re not improving my moods with your constant fretting,” Andy informed her sisters. “I’m upset about that Transfiguration teacher. You know Dumbledore is actually keeping her on? Even after this disgraceful first year? She made me partner with a mudblood on three different assignments.”

  
This was not the true cause of her ire. Andromeda didn’t care a whit about her Transfiguration teacher. She was angry because of Bella. This was _all_ because of Bella. She was anxious and furious. She felt betrayed. She knew her sisters well, however. Of the three girls, only Andromeda regarded muggleborns with indifference...and she kept this complete lack of inclination secret. Bella and Cissy swallowed the excuse instantly, mouths twisting into sneers.

  
“The board of governors will sack her, perhaps,” Bella supposed darkly, “the progressive _bitch_.”

  
“Language, Bellatrix,” said Druella blandly, not looking up.

  
At this point, Sirius came striding in. He held up his new broom by way of explanation. “Alphard sent me this. Can someone teach me to fly it?”

  
“Nonsense,” Narcissa said. “You’ll fall and break your neck.”

  
Sirius gave her a look somewhere between incredulity and disgust. The amount of personality he projected was impressive. If a gargantuan, slime-covered toad suddenly appeared in Narcissa’s place, he would conceivably regard it with that same expression.

  
“I’ll teach you, Siri,” Bella offered. “The day so far has turned out rather dull. Perhaps a spot of flying will help. After dinner?”

  
“Oh, don’t go in the dark,” Narcissa protested.

  
“Brilliant, this evening then!” Sirius crowed and raced out again.

  
Narcissa sighed.

  
“Where’s Father gotten off to?” Andromeda mused, absently picking up small, crystal skull. She tossed it from hand to hand as she paced.

  
No one answered her question. Cygnus was, for the record, in the cellar. He was currently throwing knives at a modest swarm of doxies. Walburga had asked him previously to dispose of them for her. House elves, apparently, were no good for it. He could easily have used the doxycide in the cupboard to poison the pests. Moving targets that fought back, however, were far more entertaining. Like Bellatrix, Andromeda and Sirius, he suffered from harrowing spells of boredom- so he found creative ways to amuse himself.

  
The blade of his throwing knife neatly severing the head off a doxy, for instance, made for quite an interesting sight.

  
“Mother, can I go out tonight after I help Sirius?” Bellatrix was inquiring in the parlor.

  
Druella responded in a leisurely way, picking up another letter. “Where?”

  
“Just to meet up with some friends from school,” Bella explained airily. “We’re learning some new spells together, practicing dueling. The Ministry can’t get us with the Trace if we’re not at home…”

  
“Oh, alright then,” said Druella indifferently.

  
_She’s going to meet her teacher,_ thought Andromeda and that was the final straw. It was bad enough to no longer be trusted with Bella's secrets. It was bad enough to be shown Bella's wounds only to get placated like a child. It was worse that Bella was allowing this teacher to hurt her. It was worst that she seemed to want him to. Andromeda's already strained disposition snapped. She spun on her heel and spitefully hurled the crystal skull at her sister.

Used to having things randomly flung at her but startled nonetheless, Bellatrix wandlessly froze the skull in mid air. Her reflexes spared her a bruise. The skull hovered, gleaming and grinning at them. The sisters stared at each other in motionless silence, Andromeda with her lips parted and her eyes burning, Bella in bewildered disbelief. For Andromeda, it was a gratifying moment. She wanted Bella to be upset. This sickening ordeal could not continue on in silence. Unfortunately for her, the impulsive move had caught Druella's notice.

  
Voldemort didn’t need legilimency to hear the shriek that followed.

  
_“Andromeda Black, don’t you throw that at your sister; it’s priceless!”_

  
Orion paused in the middle of explaining why, so long as it was done responsibly, muggle hunting ought to be legal. “Gracious,” he blinked, listening,  “whatever are they doing down there?”

  
“I can’t imagine,” Voldemort lied.

  
He seldom had trouble keeping a straight face- but this was, after all, an unusually amusing family.

  
After some time, Cygnus joined them in the study and wove himself into the chat. He did not offer as many opinions as Orion, more preoccupied with spelling doxy blood off of his knives. The legilimens made sure, however, to catch and keep his interest.

  
Voldemort came face to face with Andromeda for the first time when Orion summoned the family. They gathered together in the parlor, cluttering the comparatively small space with their vivid strength of personality. Sirius was still clutching his new broomstick, paying no attention whatsoever to his father. Regulus was looking worriedly at Sirius. Walburga and Druella were smiling courteously, their eyes bright with interest. The Sisters Black had not been home to hear rumors of Voldemort. Narcissa nonetheless was curious.

  
Bellatrix looked so happy she could have started floating. Her smile was radiant. She was not surprised because Voldemort had warned her beforehand that he would be paying a visit.

  
Andromeda did not watch Voldemort at all. She watched Bellatrix, tracking her elder sister’s reaction. Unease and alarm rose quickly in her.

  
“This is the wizard we have been hearing so much about,” explained Orion after he’d finished introducing his family. He did not bother to explain everything to the children; he spoke only for the benefit of the adults. “After Evan told me about his accomplishments, I simply had to see it for myself. He is working _wonders_ with magic and society alike. Cygnus and I spoke a great deal with him just now and we can say for sure that he is advancing the interests of our kind. With this in mind, Cygnus’s eldest will be his apprentice for a while.” He paused then glanced at Bella. “I expect you to do your family proud, girl.”

  
“Yes, uncle,” said Bella easily.

  
They wandered over to the dining room then. Voldemort was once more reeled into a lengthy discussion of current affairs. He put forth a few suggestions and listened patiently to the ideas thrown at him. The longer the conversation went on, the more intrigued the adult Blacks became. As for the children, they were in their own world at the end of the table. Sirius and Regulus bickered quietly. Bellatrix cheerfully passed Narcissa more fruit. Andromeda watched Voldemort, a pretty smile frozen onto her mouth. Her plan to get help from her family was crumbling beneath her feet. Her options were narrowing. Her goal seemed suddenly desperate.

  
She was backed into a corner. Like an animal in a corner, she did not cower. She lashed out.

  
_**FILTH.** _

  
Her expression did not change. She was calmly spreading butter onto bread, still with her pleasant smile. The invective she flung at him however was so venomous she may as well have screamed it. Hatred saturated her thoughts.

  
_I know you can hear me. She told me you can hear. You’re worthless. You’re garbage. You’re trash._

  
_You don’t deserve to breathe this air._

  
_You’re a waste of human skin._

  
Andromeda smiled warmly at Narcissa, telling her not to worry herself over Sirius. Beneath a mask of sweetness, she was ice.

  
Voldemort did not react to her provocation. After all, he’d been called worse things. Instead, he took the opportunity for what it was- a chance to pull information out of her head. Memories clung to her vicious words, strung together by association. He glimpsed her helping Bella torment a second year in the Slytherin Girls’ lavatory. He learned her reaction to seeing Bella’s back full of glass. He saw her noticing the burn on Bella’s wrist at breakfast, not two weeks ago. He got to hear all about Ted Tonks.

In a matter of minutes, he was completely caught up.

  
It was useful knowledge. It was also a bit disappointing. He could not, for instance, recruit Andromeda because one sister precluded the other. Harming Bellatrix earned Andromeda’s loathing. Similarly, harming Andromeda would distress Bella. Besides, the middle sister was wild and unpredictable. Her indifference to the state of the world and her whimsical lifestyle made her difficult. Additionally, because she cared less than Bella did, she did not work quite as hard. Her ability was less and her potential was less. Voldemort could easily have made use of her intelligence- but he could also do without it.

  
No, it was better to get her out of the way. She was incapable of harming his goals for the moment. Nonetheless, this malevolence she directed at him now was no passing fancy. She _would_ act on it.

  
_If you harm my sister again, you parasite,_ her mind whispered to him down the table, _I will end your filthy life._

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Loathing is like a wide, black pit in the brain. If you’re not directly confronted with the object of your hatred, you can skirt around its edges. Logicality can be maintained. Catastrophic consequences can be avoided. When the thing you abhor is before you however, it’s all too easy to fall.

  
Andromeda was a calculating girl. Throughout her life, she was always less excitable than Bellatrix. She acted on her impulses but she considered them first. She leaned toward smaller pleasures and slighter risks. When large risks were necessary, she did her best to moderate them. The night Voldemort dined with the Black Family, Andy kept her composure. She attacked him with her thoughts instead of her outward behavior. The adults of her family would never have forgiven a poorly-timed outburst and she minded that fact. In the years that followed too, she always measured influential factors and likely consequences.

  
She fell into the pit slowly. She clawed at its edges, her clever mind casting about for a solution. She found handholds sometimes when she started to slip. She climbed until her fingers were bloody. Nonetheless, somewhere at the end of her endurance, she plummeted. She went wild. Careful strategizing failed her and so her actions became more and more drastic. In those last few months before her exile, nothing moved her but hatred- and hatred is not a precise weapon.

  
Andy needed one, lethal cut. Instead she inflicted widespread damage, impacting those she held dear and missing her target entirely.

  
Ultimately, it worked fairly well for Voldemort.

  
That summer in 1967 was pivotal though. The day after Voldemort’s visit was especially so. Andy woke from a night of restless half-sleep, having waited to hear Bella’s footsteps in the hall. Bella had spent the evening with Sirius and the night, most likely, with her teacher. She hadn’t returned to their countryside manor until the earliest hours of the morning.

  
Andy wasn’t speaking to her, too furious to broach the topic. Bella didn't know the extent of Andy‘s ire- but at breakfast that morning, she noticed it most certainly. Andy sat in stone cold silence, watching her mother sweetly spell lint off of her father’s robes. Cygnus was telling Druella about his last hunting trip and she was listening intently. On the other end of the table, Bella, Andy and Cissy were left to themselves.

  
“Fried tomatoes?” Bella tried, lifting the dish wandlessly and bidding it float toward Andy. It was an ostentatious display of magical skill, one she had only recently become capable of. The adults were too engrossed in their indulgences to notice. Narcissa watched her sisters, a furrow appearing between her elegant brows.

  
“No,” said Andy, pushing the floating platter away with one hand.

  
“Pumpkin juice?” Bella attempted again, replacing the tomatoes with a crystal pitcher.

  
Andy ignored her, using a fork to butcher her untouched scrambled eggs.

  
Bella set the pitcher back with a graceless thud, gray eyes hardening. She turned to Cissy. “Why is she angry with me?” she hissed across the table.

  
Cissy gave a small shake of her head, indicating that she was just as in the dark as Bella was.

  
Andy exhaled slowly. Then she set her fork down with a clang. The sound was loud enough to draw even Cygnus and Druella back to the surrounding world. The moment her parents glanced at her, Andy spoke.

  
“Is it not indecorous,” she inquired frostily, “allowing an underage witch to take private lessons from an adult wizard? One we scarcely know anything about?”

  
“Sweetheart,” said Druella absently, hand resting gently on Cygnus’s arm, “they aren’t private lessons. He is taking a hand in instructing plenty of young heirs- the Nott boy, the Averys, Abraxas Malfoy’s son. Your cousin, Evan, associates with him frequently and was one of the people who recommended him to us in the first place. Apparently, the achievements of his pupils are remarkable. And…times are changing. Our Family mustn’t be left out.” She paused, giving a small concession. “It would doubtless be better for us to send the firstborn _male_ heir but Sirius isn’t old enough. Either we send Bellatrix or we miss the opportunity.”

  
“Bella’s not the sort a wizard would dare take liberties with either,” Cygnus remarked brightly. He grinned at his eldest. “Are you, spitfire?”

  
“No, Father,” said Bella, smiling.

  
“There you have it,” he concluded fondly.

  
“She’s _besotted_ with this so-called teacher,” Andy spat.

  
Bella turned on her, outrage and disbelief widening her eyes.

  
“Then maybe ‘this so-called teacher’ should worry about _her_ taking liberties with _him_ ,” Cygnus shot back before Bellatrix could open her mouth.

  
Druella swatted his arm. “Cygnus, you’re terrible!” Despite the words, her tone was cloying. Cygnus grinned roguishly at her, she melted and the two went right back to ignoring their daughters. Fawning over each other was a time consuming hobby. It was basically the story of Andy’s life.

  
“But, Father,” Andy attempted, desperation weakening her voice, “Mother-”

  
“But Father, Mother _what?_ ” Bellatrix snapped. “What on earth has gotten into you? Would you care to share why you’ve been randomly attacking me or should I assume it’s just that time of the month?”

  
“Girls,” said Druella sharply. “If you’re going to fight, do it somewhere out of the way. It’s ill-mannered to trouble others with your petty quarreling.”

  
Andromeda stood from the table so fast her chair toppled over. Gasping in anger, Druella shot a stinging hex at her as she quit the room. It caught Andy on the arm, pain stabbing into her bicep. She slammed the door shut behind her. Muffled but audible, she heard Cissy offer agreement with Bellatrix.

  
“That time of month, it must be.”

  
Andy sneered, rubbing her arm as she stalked through the house. They wouldn’t listen to her. They wouldn’t spare a minute for a damned thing she had to say. If all their children voiced a concern, Cygnus at least would usually address it. If it was Andromeda alone however? She was a silly girl. She was an emotional teenager. She didn’t know what she was talking about. The importance of the information she needed to relate was inconsequential.

  
If Bella had backed her up, they would have listened. That was the crux of it. Andy had enjoyed a lifetime of successes via her unparalleled partnership with Bella. Homework, social tiers, networking, appearances, enemies- together, they handled it all. How exactly was Andy to do anything if Bella was not on her side?

  
It was simply laughable. It was absurd. Someone was torturing Bella and Bella herself sabotaged Andy’s attempts to save her. Andy was used to being opposed by the adults. That wasn’t surprising. They never cared to listen or pay attention or spend their time. That’s why the Sisters Black were inseparable and unfailingly devoted to each other. They had no one else and they knew it! Why wasn’t Bella on Andy’s side? _How_ could Bella not be on Andy’s side?

  
Andromeda was in a rage at this point. She was all but shaking with spite- and in this state, she desired nothing more than to spite the Family. She wanted to spit on their ever pure, beloved values. It took seconds for her to figure out how. She went to the cabinet in the study, filching her father’s expensive illusions wine. She took his silver box of illustrator cigars. She stole her mother’s imported mood chocolates and powdery frosted biscuits. She packed them into a larger-on-the-inside goblin-made velvet purse. Then she went to the nearest fireplace and flooed to the Leaky Cauldron.

  
She stepped out into Muggle London and held her wand arm out, facing the curb. It took only a minute for the Knight Bus to appear. Andy strode past the conductor and onto the vehicle without sparing him a glance. The address she gave him was in the muggle world also: the Tonks residence.

  
Andy was a resolute young witch. This impulse of hers was, by her family’s standards, reprehensible. It was unthinkable and disgraceful and incomprehensible. In Andy’s mind, however, it was deserved. _They deserved it_. She didn’t doubt her choice for a second and for the whole long rest of her life, she didn’t regret it either.

  
A lurching half hour later, she was standing outside a miserable little shack on the most pitiful street she’d ever seen. The houses were smaller than those of her aunt and uncle’s unknowing neighbors. They were sandwiched together in uniform mediocrity, lined up like shoe boxes. Ted’s house looked about the same as all the others. There could hardly be more than seven or eight rooms inside, she surmised, bound up by a shoddy little fence. She wasn’t surprised. The privilege of her wealth was not something she’d ever second-guessed. The house’s dreariness, on the other hand, made this all the better. She walked up to the front door. It was such a fine, summer morning.

  
Andy had to knock several times. Her relentless mood made her movements demanding. She struck the door with her knuckles, three times, waited, then three times again.

  
After a minute or so of this, a woman’s muffled voice called, “coming, I’m _coming!_ Christ!”

  
The door opened, revealing a plain young woman not much older than Andromeda. She had straw-colored hair and a ruddy nose. Her eyes were blue and gullible. Her face, when she opened the door, was screwed up with annoyance. Her annoyance was as potent as a thimbleful of wine in ten gallons of water. Needless to say, Andy was not intimidated.

  
This woman was a muggle. She was barely a step up from livestock, of course. The ignorance in her face was to be expected. The ugly rags she wore only emphasized this fact. As her eyes fell on Andromeda, her expression turned to one of surprise.

  
“Oh,” she uttered, blinking. “Hello. May I help you?”

  
Andy realized distantly that she’d never spoken to a muggle before. What was the protocol here? Should she use little words and speak gently? Honestly, it was moderately ludicrous to even converse with such a creature. Still, Andy supposed, Ted might be upset if she stunned his sister and walked uninvited into his home.

  
“Hello, dear,” she replied warmly, flashing the muggle a dazzling smile. “My name is Andromeda Black. I am a friend of Ted’s from school. Is he at home?”

  
_“You’re_ Andromeda?” the muggle repeated incredulously. Her eyes bugged, traveling from Andy’s glossy hair to her airy, spider silk robes. “Wow. I thought Ted was making you up.”

  
“Interesting,” said Andy patiently and repeated herself, “but is he _at home?”_

  
“Oh, right, one sec,” said the muggle. She stepped away from the door, into the house. Then she hollered, “Teddy! Andromeda Black here to see you!”

  
“You lying doxy,” Andy heard Ted holler back from somewhere in the house, “I’m not falling for that!”

  
“What the blazes is a doxy?” the muggle woman demanded, hands on her hips. She paused, glancing back to Andromeda. “Er, why don’t you come in? This might take a while.”

  
Andy stepped inside the hovel after her host, glancing curiously around as she did. There were pictures of Ted’s family on the walls but they didn’t move. They hung there in static flatness, beaming emptily at the viewer. It was perplexing.

  
As they left the cramped foyer, the house opened up into a messy sitting room. There was a sofa and a number of peculiar muggle devices littering the space. There were also dirty dishes, discarded jumpers, shoes and piles of homework. Andy felt a keen wave of pity for Ted’s family. It must have been terribly difficult to not have a house elf. Additionally, without magic, they were obliged to do all their work by hand. The squalor they lived in was a direct result. It was nigh unthinkable and yet it was the reality they lived. Perhaps Ted would be able to help once he turned seventeen.

  
“It’s a bit of a mess,” Ted’s muggle sister said self-consciously, grabbing a few of the coats and jumpers off of the couch. “The parents are at work so it’s just us two brats home for the summer. You can sit here, if you like. I’ll go fetch my brother. Want to watch telly?”

  
“Telly?” Andy repeated blankly.

  
The muggle paused for a moment, looking confused. Then her eyes lit with realization. “Oh, that’s right. Ted mentioned you Wizarding lot don’t have technology and the like. I’ll get you a magazine.” She grabbed a glossy booklet full of unmoving pictures off of a shelf and deposited it into Andy’s nonplussed hands. “Natural wonders alright? Here you go.”

  
Then she disappeared into the back of the house.

  
The magazine seemed to be a collection of photographs, each depicting towering rock pillars, canyons or dense jungles. Since the motionless pictures told so little, there were articles alongside them to explain what they were about. Andy skimmed it for a minute or so.

Then Ted appeared from around the corner, looking shocked.

  
“Andromeda!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. Then he finished lamely, “hello.”

  
“Hello yourself,” she returned sweetly. “Having a nice summer?”

  
“Ehm, yeah, yes,” he managed, going red. “Finished that arithmancy homework already. The calculator turned out to be invaluable.” He stared at her for a second. “Have you met my sister, Edith?”

  
“I answered the door, you dunce,” the muggle reminded him, reappearing and hastily grabbing up the dirty dishes. She hauled them off to a cramped little kitchen on the right.

  
Ted scratched the back of his head. “Right. So what brings you?”

  
“My family was being _beastly,_ ” Andy explained, leaning toward him. “I couldn’t tolerate their unpleasantness another minute. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by. I brought some sweets to share with you.”

  
“We don’t mind at all,” Ted quickly said as Edith banged around in the kitchen. “Did you apparate here?”

  
Andy laughed. “You can’t get your Apparition License until you’re seventeen,” she explained. “I took the Knight Bus.”

  
Ted’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

  
She barely suppressed another laugh that threatened to burst from her throat. He was such a _mudblood!_ Four semesters at Hogwarts and he still didn’t know anything.

  
Andy explained the Knight Bus’s finer and not-so-fine aspects. Then Ted explained the workings of what his family called a ‘telly’. She got lost somewhere between signals and antennas. When her only response was to poke the machine warily with her wand, Ted burst out laughing. After a few minutes, Edith joined them in the sitting room.

  
“Mum will have a fit if I let him alone with a girl,” she told Andy, pouring them all some tea.

  
Andy decided then was the time to unpack her stash. She set out her mother’s mood chocolates, each which temporarily filled the consumer with a powerful emotion. She urged Edith and Ted to try the biscuits, each ice-cold, sweet and soft as a snowflake. She showed them how to draw elaborate doodles with the cigars. They cheered when her smoky horses raced each other across the room. They chortled at Ted’s mock Quidditch match, etched out in smoke. She poured them both a finger’s width of the illusion wine, watching dreams steal their minds away.

  
Edith protested the drinking and smoking at first; Andy offered her a mood chocolate instead. Mood chocolates weren’t really legal but that could be said of half the things the Black Family owned. Ministry policy had certainly never stopped Druella. While the particular chocolate Andy passed over looked pretty and delicious, it was also laced with a recklessness potion. Mere seconds after eating it, Edith felt willing to give the rest of Andy’s goodies a try. Muggles were so easily handled.

  
Soon they were all laughing and reveling together. Before Andy knew it, the entire morning and half the afternoon was past.

  
She felt satisfied. She felt as leisurely as a cat with canary feathers in its teeth. She reclined on Ted’s ratty couch and grinned at her dazed companions. She’d just fed several hundred galleons worth of luxury items to a mudblood and his filthy muggle sister. It was a delightfully vicious feeling. Vengeance was so very sweet.

  
_Toujours pur?_ Fuck it.

 

o0O0o

 

Andy spent that evening, obviously, locked inside a cupboard.

  
She’d come home reeking of cigars and alcohol, mirthful and devoid of remorse. In the interest of self-preservation, she’d told her parents that she consumed half the luxuries herself and dumped the rest in a river. Her mother had slapped her harshly across the face, nails scratching Andy‘s cheek. Had she mentioned Ted and Edith, Druella might just have skinned her.

  
It was no matter. Andy was used to being ignored, used to being slapped and used to being locked in a cupboard. As far as she was concerned, her defiant efforts were well-spent. She felt a hundred times better. Ted’s dingy, ridiculous, carefree world tamed the fury in her soul. His guileless eyes were like the sky after a storm. She conjured strings of their conversations together and echoes of his laughter. It filled her head, music in the small, locked space.

  
This cupboard was kept empty, a small four-by-four foot room on the third floor. The door was located twelve feet up the wall, at least when it was locked. When Druella came with her little, brass key, the door would slide obligingly down to floor level. The cramped prison was engineered for the purpose of disciplining unruly children.

  
When Bella and Andy had been seven and eight, it got almost daily use. How many evenings had they spent in here, left to hunger until morning? Conversely, Cissy had almost never been locked up. She was too sensible to have fits and throw things. Andy herself hadn’t been shut in this cupboard since she was eleven. Still, the process was familiar enough.

  
The space was tighter than it had been last time. She was fifteen now and still growing. She gathered her skirts around her knees, leaning her head back against the wall. She closed her eyes, reveling in the shadowy silence. She grinned unkindly at the ceiling.

  
She was coasting still. She was beyond anger and hatred, hazed within the blithe realms of amusement. She chuckled to herself, laughing at her secret jokes. A mudblood with her father’s cigars. A muggle eating her mother’s six galleon apiece biscuits. She threw her head back and laughed wildly, clutching her stomach.

  
“Gone mad already, love?”

  
Twelve feet up, the door creaked open. Bellatrix’s black eyes peered down at her. A marvelously well-kept secret of the sisters’ was that they never actually went hungry. Bella had figured out how to pick the cupboard lock at age eight. A sparse second later, the eldest sister slipped down the narrow shaft on a wiry cord. Then she passed Andy a plate of dinner.

  
It was their oldest tradition. Cissy distracted the house elf, carrying on and on about revitalizing the parlor décor for whatever latest trends. Meanwhile, Bella or Andy- whichever of them wasn’t locked up- would skulk down to the kitchens and whip up some food. The plate Andy received now bore two slices of toast, fried eggs and bacon. It was a breakfast meal and unsuitable for dinner time. It was also the only thing Bellatrix knew how to cook.

  
More attentive parents, perhaps, would notice their two daughters behaving strangely whilst the third was locked away. Cygnus and Druella were so wrapped up in their amusements and each other that they’d never caught on. If the sisters weren’t troubling them, that meant there was no trouble. Bella eased herself down onto the floor at Andy’s side. She sat close, pressed to Andy’s shoulder. There wasn’t enough space for distance.

  
Andy felt suddenly grateful for the close walls. The narrow prison had drawn Bella down to her, a reminder that such bonds did not break. The unnameable wizard with his dead cold eyes and his poisonous rhetoric had not corrupted her heart’s foundation. He distracted Bella, charmed her, stole away her gaze- but she would always come back, reaching out for her other half. Andy sagged, her energy stolen, and curled against Bella’s side. She felt like weeping, either in vexation or relief.

  
“There now,” Bella laughed, gathering her tenderly closer. “You silly creature. Did it never occur to you to tell me why you’re troubled?”

  
“I’m tired,” Andy murmured, hiding her face in Bella’s black hair.

  
“You’re distraught,” said Bella, putting a fork in her little sister’s hand. “Is it about my teacher? You’ve been so vague that neither Cissy nor I know what you‘re upset about. I’m only guessing him because I can’t think of anything else it could be. Didn’t you like him?” She paused, waiting in vain for a response. Then she frowned as Andy tucked into her supper. “Oh, but how _could_ you not like him? Even Uncle liked him!”

  
“If he is as deft with magic as he is with words, the whole world shall succumb to his poisons,” Andy remarked, breaking the yoke of her egg so that it spilled all over her toast. “He’s extremely subtle and because of it, ten times more dangerous than anyone thinks.”

  
“We need someone dangerous to lead us, I’d say,” Bella suggested, her voice turning ever so slightly breathless. “The Ministry will grind our way of life into nothing at this rate. They keep us down by force, imprisoning anyone who doesn't obey their policies. We must reclaim our rights by force as well.”

  
“But _how_ is our way of life in jeopardy?” Andy burst out, gesturing with her fork. “I see no mudbloods trotting up to steal our galleons. They don’t enter our shops, they don’t come to our parties. We must see them at school but they make a fine spectacle, I think. Shouldn’t we be pleased to have them as entertainment?”

  
“Andy, what nonsense are you spouting?” Bella dismissed, exasperated. “I don’t want those repulsive cretins within a mile of you and Cissy! You deserve better than that; every respectable witch and wizard in our world would agree. Not a one of them, however, has the guts to _do_ anything about it! There’s only him.” She shook her head. Andy could feel the agitation thrumming beneath her skin. “You question him? We should be kissing the ground upon which he stands! He is a _gift_. He’s everything we’ve needed so desperately. How can you not see it?”

  
“Sweet Morgana,” Andy told her mutilated egg sadly, “she has it worse than we thought.”

  
“Don’t talk to your meals, love,” Bella chided absently, looking up, “they’ll lock you up in St. Mungo’s-” She broke off suddenly, squinting at the open door above them. “Cissy?” she called. “Cissy, are you up there?”

  
Andy glanced up in time to see a shadow slipping away from the door frame. Their little sister’s voice did not come fluting down to them however. Bella’s hail was met with only silence.

  
“A ghoul must have come creeping in again,” Andy concluded, unenthusiastically eating some bacon. “They always think they can take up wherever they’d like. We’d best hunt it down soon, my heart, before it makes a mess of the attic. I’ll brew some poison tomorrow.”

  
“It was much too pale and pretty to be a ghoul,” Bella disagreed. “I could have sworn it was…” She shook her head. “No matter.” She tapped her foot restlessly against the cupboard’s opposite wall. “Listen, Andy, it must be hard to form a proper opinion around all of Uncle Orion’s pomp. Why don’t I bring you along with me to my next lesson? I’m certain Master will be willing to take the time to put your worries to rest.”

  
Andy’s upper lip curled but in the deep shadows, Bella didn’t see it.

  
“Talk with him,” Bella entreated, “or better yet, let me show you what I’ve been learning! You’ll see in a heartbeat how worthwhile it is.”

  
“What could be worth the price of your pain?” said Andy. She aimed for an even tone but the question came out brittle.

  
“Pain,” Bella scoffed. “I have challenged myself and succeeded. The hardship of my teacher’s lessons has given me excellence. What? Would you rather I sit in the parlor, embroidering pillow cushions? Get married and spend my life gossiping with feather-headed socialites? _This_ is who I am! This is what I’m meant to do! I’ve never been happier in my life.”

  
Andromeda exhaled and closed her eyes. She could feel a pressure in her chest, as if her lungs weren’t getting quite enough air. This was not a simple problem.

  
The fate of the Sisters Black had always seemed grim. The inevitability of becoming the Family’s bargaining chips had led them to resignation. They did their best to avoid the worst pitfalls, tweaking the web here and there, influencing their path. They could never break free however. They’d never had that expectation. Bella, Andy and Cissy’s only plan had been stay together, stay together at all costs.

  
Bella, however, saw a way out. This gilded cage was suffocating her restless, passionate soul. She wanted to fight. Could Andy deny her that? It would be like denying a raptor its right to fly.

  
Glass was really a little thing. Burns were little things. In exchange, Bella was defined by her strengths instead of being treated like a doll. Andy was beginning to understand why the arrangement appealed to her sister so very much. Besides this teacher, what other adult had ever valued Bellatrix for her _potential?_

  
Bella hadn’t come home with her arm cursed off- at least, not yet. It was obvious that Bella’s skills were improving exponentially. Her teacher was delivering exactly what he’d promised her with remarkable speed. It wasn’t the style of a conman. It just reeked somehow of deception, exploitation and ulterior motive.

  
Andy hated him. She was wholly invested in this hatred. The very thought of him marring Bellatrix sent shudders of loathing through her. How dare he? He didn’t deserve to have that power, to harm or not to harm. Bellatrix did not belong to _him._

  
This argument however was emotional. It would never be enough to change Bella's mind, not when Bella's motivations were so valid. Andy needed a logical platform upon which to stand. Even if she convinced the adults of the Family to listen to her- that the lessons _were_ private, Bella was getting hurt and that he’d starting teaching her a whole year ago without their permission- they might very well brush it off. The promise of power was all too tempting.

  
Andy had to learn what his plan was. She had to find out more about him. Seething over Bella’s injuries and running off to see Ted wouldn’t help her. Her foe was clever. She had to be clever too.

  
“Very well,” said Andromeda and set her plate aside. “I will meet him.”

  
Bella’s face lit up. Her happiness could scarcely fit in the little room. “Good. You won’t regret it, Andy.” She paused, worry dimming her eyes. “But be polite, mind. He deserves our respect.”

  
Andy donned a benevolent, dishonest smile. “When am I ever impolite?”

 

o0O0o

 

The meeting Bella suggested took place at a soiree held by the Travers. It wasn’t really a notable affair and the number of guests was limited. Nonetheless, as Andy stepped inside, she noticed a recurring trend amidst the attendees. There were people with leverage. There were people who needed leverage. There were people who liked benefiting from the bargains of others. All of them belonged to the conservative, even radical side of Wizarding politics.

  
Andy had only recently gained the right to attend parties unsupervised. Pureblood parents did not usually let their children out of sight until they were fifteen. Left to decide on their own, Druella and Cygnus weren’t likely to care. It was a tradition however and traditions were followed to the letter.

  
It was something of a relief for Bellatrix and Andromeda that Cissy was still so young. They’d be hexing suitors left and right once their lovely little sister entered society.

  
Andy had enough to worry about for the time being. She wore glossy green silk and elbow-length gloves, ropes of silver at her neck. Her smile was flawless. Her thoughts were veiled. She’d pestered Bella for Occlumency tips in the days leading up to this night. She could keep her motives obscured, if nothing else.

  
Even so, this was not an idle party. No one had come to revel and boast. The cutting intent within each greeting, each searching gaze, set Andy on edge. She preferred to move among lambs, easy thrills and easy pickings. This was a gathering of wolves and Bellatrix stepped into it without hesitation.

  
The eldest sister wore red.

  
Andy and Bella wasted little time with their entrance. They exchanged greetings at the door but moved quickly through the main areas of the social. They weren’t here for political networking and they certainly didn’t intend to discuss the latest Muggle Protection bill. Instead, Bella made a beeline for the old house’s backrooms. She led Andy up a long staircase and down a deserted hall. The sounds of the soiree had diminished completely by the time they reached their destination.

  
A shut door stood at the end of the corridor. Bella gave a single knock. It swung open at her touch.

  
On the other side of the door was a large study, bookshelves lining the walls and comfortable chairs occupying the center. There was a polished, antique coffee table bearing an ashtray and drinks. Four wizards and an aging witch were seated in the space, speaking together. Andy knew two of them- her adult cousin, Evan Rosier, and on the other side of the table, Bellatrix’s teacher.

  
She didn’t know the other three but she could place them. The woman was the matriarch of the Avery family, a black veil trailing down from her hat and obscuring her lined face. The two wizards beside Bella’s teacher had to be the Lestrange brothers, both with hawkish faces and a dusky tone to their skin. They looked to be about ten years apart but they dressed the same way, each with a black goatee and black robes. The older brother, Rabastan, had a broad frame. The younger, Rodolphus, was wiry. His eyes flicked up to the sisters as they entered, fixing them with a subdued and perceptive gaze. Then, disinterested, he looked away.

  
The main gathering had seemed dangerous. This room felt like a death trap. Whatever topics were broached in here outweighed the political talk outside. As it stood, no one paid the sisters’ entrance any mind. The adults continued their quiet discussion about an ‘event’ next week that had to take place a specific way. Bella’s teacher was explaining the reasons for this while Avery and Rosier listened. The Lestrange brothers said nothing unless prompted.

  
For example, Bella’s teacher murmured, “there will be three in the room, Bastan, is that fine?” and the older Lestrange replied, “indeed, I think so.”

  
The sisters stepped around the edges until Bella found an unobtrusive corner for them. They kept their silence, glancing absently at book titles as they waited. Andromeda watched Bella’s profile while straining her ears, absorbing every word that she could. She noticed several things.

  
The first was that Bella had taken great pains with her appearance. She looked striking and poised, not a hair out of place. Every now and then, however, she'd steal a glance at her teacher's hands or shoulders or mouth. The second was the strangeness of the adults’ conversation. Andy was able to grasp some of the general concepts they traded. The details, however, slid right out of her brain. She couldn’t process them no matter how she attempted to hone her focus. At first she thought her nerves were subverting her. After a minute or so more of failure, she was forced to conclude that, no, this was magic.

  
The spell bent perception itself, making it impossible to spy. The subtlety and elegance were such that his magic might have been part of the air. Instead of being impressed, Andy found herself hating him more. He was like a poison. He got into everything, slowly and insidiously corrupting what he touched.

  
It was not long before Avery and Rosier stood, wishing the other three well and exiting the study. Rosier gave a nod to his cousins as he left, holding the door for the Avery matriarch. The door had no sooner clicked shut than Bella’s teacher was turning to them, a smile on his bloodless face.

  
“Good evening, Bella,” he greeted his student. As far as the younger sister could tell, he was genuinely pleased to see Bella. The familiarity of his words however set Andy’s teeth on edge.

  
“Master,” said Bellatrix, dropping into a graceful curtsy. Andy followed suit, coolly inclining her head. “You remember my sister, Andromeda.”

  
“Of course, charmed,” he recited easily. He gestured to the now vacant chairs opposite him. “Please, join us.”

  
Bella and Andy joined the small circle, settling into velvet-lined arm chairs. Once she was seated across from Bella’s teacher, Andy got the sense she should be asking him to get rid of somebody. Was that what this little room was for? Was that the business conducted here? She couldn’t think what else could create such an atmosphere of secrets and power. It also made sense. The Averys and the Rosiers both had their share of enemies. Perhaps Bella’s teacher was nothing more than an opportunistic assassin.

  
Unfortunately for Andy, the only person she wanted to be rid of was _him_.

  
“I brought along some friends to introduce you to as well,” the unnameable wizard was telling her sister, “but I didn’t mention Andromeda. Rabastan and Rodolphus, you see, detest meeting new people. If you’d like, picture me dragging them here with a summoning charm. It’s not far from the truth.”

  
An involuntary grin cracked Bella’s courteous exterior. Apparently, she bought into his brand of silver-tongued charisma. The brothers too were ducking their heads, smiling in an abashed way. Were they _all_ wrapped around his finger?

  
It was unsettling, mostly because it was so odd. The Lestrange brothers and Bellatrix both were scions of significantly wealthy families. They had a nationally-recognized pedigree. Even without formal introduction, everyone knew who they were. This man, however- nobody knew him. Nobody could place him. It was as if he’d come from nowhere at all. People who came from nowhere _in this society_ did not have a flock of influential aristocrats hanging on their every word.

  
It just didn’t happen.

  
“Well,” he continued quietly, never bothering to speak up, “bringing together people who compliment each other is the role of a friend. Bastan and Rod, as it so happens, do a great deal of field work. Bella, it’s the sort of work I believe you would call _‘actually getting things done.’_ Bastan has a knack for finding elusive people. Rod’s talents lie in assessing enemy weak points. I’m sure you’ll get along swimmingly.”

  
It was clear to see he had successfully piqued Bella’s interest. Andy watched her sister go through the standard social rituals for introductions. She absently echoed each, ‘pleasure is mine,’ and ‘charmed, Mr. Lestrange.’ The little niceties were footnotes compared to the riddle between the lines. Andy  tried to put the pieces together and see the big picture.

  
Just what web was Bella caught in? Just what design was threading perniciously through their society? Andy’s eyes caught on those of the mastermind’s and it all fell apart in her head. He smiled indulgently at her. If he’d had any kind of heart at all, it would have seemed warm.

  
“How much has Bella told you of our cause, Andromeda?” the teacher asked her then. “Are you also interested in changing the world for the better?”

  
The exchange itself was singular. Adults did not ask children for their opinion. There were social tiers and generational tiers. The value of words was predetermined by rank. This was his angle. He made eye contact with young people and spoke to them in that interested, appraising voice. He offered them the chance to prove themselves, to speak intelligently or foolishly and let that be the judge of their character. Even Andy could see temptation in such a thing.

  
Toddlers could be lured with candy. The heirs of wealthy families, traded and sold by their elders, exploited and then promptly ignored, could be lured with _respect_.

  
“I’m sure Bella knows better about all that than I would,” Andy deflected, replaying Bella’s explanation of Occlumency once through her mind. “And she has nothing but the highest praise for you, sir.”

  
“It is my good fortune to have such a talented student,” he replied. “We’ve just begun covering environmental tactics. I have already taught your sister to be wary of her surroundings. Now I am prompting her to use them creatively to her advantage. Most duelists focus exclusively on linear combat magic- attack, parry, attack again. They miss threats that approach from the periphery. Thus, when Bella can manipulate her surroundings to attack from the back and the sides, she will garner a distinct advantage.”

  
It was well thought out. The insight and knowledge of this man was self-evident. Bella smiled widely. Andy leaned forward an inch.

  
“But goodness," she remarked quietly, "whatever is Bella going to do with all this skill?”

  
“That will be for her to decide,” said the teacher smoothly. “Skill is but the means with which to enact one’s will upon the world.”

  
“Pest removal,” Bella answered Andy’s question, earnest and succinct. “I’m going to kill everybody’s vermin for them. Just you wait and see.”

  
Her teacher exhaled, covering his breath of laughter with one hand. He seemed to be chuckling in spite of himself, in fact, his soft-voiced persuasiveness disrupted. Maybe he bought into Bella’s charisma as much as she bought into his. It was all Andy could do not to sneer.

  
Rodolphus Lestrange, however, had turned to look at him in surprise. Throughout the conversation, the brothers had remained as withdrawn as possible. Bella’s teacher clearly had not joked about their unsociable ways. They’d kept expressions of polite interest on their faces, concealing the fact that they were anything but interested. Now, the younger brother’s countenance changed. He stared at the unnameable wizard, hawk-like gaze honing in on that honest laughter.

  
For whatever reason, Rodolphus was startled.

  
The teacher answered several more of Andromeda’s questions about Bella’s instruction. He was not, however, an easy person to interrogate. For Bella’s sake, Andy pretended to be reassured. She pretended to relax and come around to his way of seeing. She doubted that she was fooling _him_ but Bella at least looked pleased. They finished their discussion with smiles and well wishes, saying goodnight before they stepped into the hall.

  
As they wandered out of the Travers House, Bella was nearly bouncing with excitement. The spring in her step was impossible to miss. She babbled on about the technical aspects of her lessons, imparting tactical insights of her teacher’s in a slightly breathless voice. Andy indulged her, giving hums of agreement in all the right places as Bella went on.

  
They were nearly to the door when a wizard stepped into their path. It was Rodolphus Lestrange.

  
“Please excuse my suddenness, Ms. Black,” he addressed Bella, donning a somewhat awkward smile. He did not socialize often and it showed in his demeanor. Every word had telltale signs of effort in it, betraying his lack of ease. “Do you and your sister have a minute to speak?”

  
“Certainly,” Bella returned with grace.

  
Rodolphus took a moment to consider his words. “I know my brother and I must have seemed boorish when we were first introduced. As our mutual friend said, we like to keep to ourselves. Still, I think, he was right to insist on our meeting. But isn’t he always right? It’s clear to see you’re different from the rest of the cut. There’s something special about you. I have a mind to find out what.”

  
“I’m certainly not the sort of delicate lady you need to worry about distressing,” said Bella. “Even if you and your brother’s work tends toward…extreme altercations…I should much like to hear about it. In fact, I feel jilted at missing the chance.”

  
“How remiss of me,” Rodolphus said after a pause. “Please allow me to apologize. I will gladly share some stories with you. Perhaps it will benefit us both. I’ve begun to suspect our mutual friend plans to have us work together someday.” He glanced around the room, scanning the crowd. Then he looked down, picking at his sleeve. “Would you care to meet with me Saturday next? Bastan and I know a perfect place for muggle hunting, a blind spot in Ministry territory. Your family members are welcome too, of course, if you’d feel more comfortable.”

  
“My father and my uncle adore muggle hunting, in fact,” Bella told him, looking pleased. “You’ve really found an easy spot for it? I shall tell them at once.” She glanced over at Andy. “Will you come as well?”

  
Andy shrugged. Getting information from friends of the teacher might be easier than getting it from the teacher himself.  “Why not?”

  
Rodolphus scanned their faces closely then flashed them that small, unpracticed smile. “Ah, excellent. I very much look forward to it. Please let me say what a pleasure it has been to meet two such delightful young witches. Saturday next then?”

  
Bella smiled, giving a curtsy. “Saturday next.”

  
He bowed to them in farewell. Then he turned and disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait, been busy. We're getting more into Bella/Rod now so I'm adding that as a tag. Thank you for reading. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there might be some stuff about Nagini in the next Fantastic Beasts movie. I'm not really sure. I just want to establish that, in this fic, she's a snake. If she was once a person who was cursed to become a snake, she no longer remembers being a person. It'd be way too creepy otherwise and I'd be seriously creeped out. Hopefully JKR won't mess with my mind much more than that. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and support! ^.^

“Comprehension is the first step to control,” said Voldemort to Rodolphus once. “Understand the people around you, why they do what they do, why they say what they say, and you can master them. Understand society and you can make it crumble in your hands.”

  
Well, Rod really took it to heart. In all fairness, he’d been at that impressionable age, desperate to have the regard of big brother’s amazing best friend. He was withdrawn and quiet, even more introverted than Bastan. Still, he made the utmost of Voldemort’s wisdom. He watched in silence every second of the day. He puzzled through people’s motivations.

  
Rod spent more time thinking than acting, most certainly. He preferred that Voldemort make his decisions for him. When he got it into his head to do something, however, he manufactured a precise and elegant plan.

  
Bella’s introduction to the brothers was calculated on Voldemort’s part. He intended to nurture good will between them for the sake of their cooperation. The idea of Bella, Rod and Bastan together appealed immensely. They were to be his vanguard. Their skill sets were complimentary. With them as the driving point of his future forces, the Ministry simply wouldn’t stand a chance.

  
He was not entirely certain though why Rod set off to befriend Bellatrix so quickly. He could only assume it was Bella’s particular charm. She was the lovely, doe-eyed carnivore surest to wrap a wizard around her pinky in under five minutes. Nonetheless, Rod observed Bellatrix. He inferred her desires and her interests. Then he determined the best ways to reel her in.

  
He didn’t buy her chocolates. He offered her insights. He established himself as a source of information about her enigmatic teacher. He showed her secret shops in which to buy weapons and cursed items. He told her some easy ways to get away with murder.

  
Even without social dexterity, he endeared himself. He was invaluable to her. Every time her attention wandered, he dropped a lure about one of Voldemort’s habits or viewpoints. The more she valued his words, the more valuable words he gave her.

  
Rod’s the one who told Bella about Voldemort’s Slytherin ancestry, for instance. Voldemort doesn’t know the precise date Rod imparted this secret. Still, she knew by the time she was seventeen. He can imagine how riveted she must have been by the fact.

  
Regardless of the younger brother’s process, the muggle hunt cinched it. Rod and Bastan met the Blacks in a remote town. Cygnus had opted to accompany his daughters- the daughters, of course, being Bellatrix and Andromeda. Narcissa hated muggles to the point that she wouldn’t go anywhere near them. Orion, though invited, had also opted out. In his opinion, trying to establish social connections with the reclusive Lestranges was a futile waste of time.

  
“The thing to understand,” said Rodolphus, “is how the Ministry detects us.”

  
He was staring out at the muggle-infested land from the roof of a parking garage. It was early in the evening. The sky was rich with the orange light of dusk. The dinky little shopping mall was deserted at this hour, assuming it ever had customers enough for its space. The town beyond was alternately brown and gray. Andy didn’t feel a teaspoon’s worth of malice for its inhabitants. She couldn’t be bothered. Nonetheless, it struck her that, on this particular evening with the sun setting to the west, the muggle world was hideous.

  
The three wizards and two young witches stood on the rooftop’s edge.

  
“It’s a complicated system,” Rod went on to say, returning Bella’s curious look with a quick smile. “The muggles, you see, have aurors of their own. ‘Policemen,’ they’re called. They investigate crimes. Every little murder, disappearance, assault and arson is investigated and reported on. They grub about in the dirt for clues to find the culprit. It seems they’re actually fairly skilled at catching their own kind. But us? Our doings go unsolved and the reports are left hanging.”

  
“The Ministry harvests these reports then?” Bella guessed, frowning down at the web work of roads. “How? Surely they can’t plant operatives in every town.”

  
“You are correct,” Rod affirmed. “That would be impossible. Muggles outnumber us twenty thousand to one. The Ministry could never hire enough people. Instead, they have enchantments placed in each muggle region. Reports that remain unsolved are automatically copied and sent to the Ministry.” He shrugged. “From there, underpaid office assistants shuffle through them in search of keywords. ‘No identifiable cause of death,’ or ‘multiple victims claim they witnessed impossible things.’ Signs of magic.”

  
Bella’s gaze sharpened. Andy could see the thoughts racing through her mind. “How do muggles kill each other, Mr. Lestrange? If we imitate their methods, it would seem like these policemen simply failed to catch the culprit.”

  
“That would work a few times,” Rodolphus agreed, “especially if you hunted in different cities each time and used different methods of muggle killing. Make it difficult for the crimes to be linked. It would get tedious however. Muggles use guns and knives and fire. You would be limited in your methods and the slightest trace of magic left behind could get you caught. There’s an easier way.”

  
“You have certainly caught our interest, Lestrange,” said Cygnus. His manner was easy and energized, excitement brimming in his eyes. He tended to enter this state whenever someone used enough violent words. “There’s no need to keep us in suspense.”

  
“Apologies,” said Rodolphus. He paused a moment, as if to reassess the pace of the conversation. “It wasn’t my intention to ramble. No, put simply, enchantments placed regionally do not fit seamlessly together. The geography of the muggle world doesn’t allow it. Where there is overlap, such as in this town, we can use a simple charm.”

  
He drew his wand, drawing an easy line through the air. “ _Redundo_ ,” he said and a faint, white pulse flared from the tip.

  
“Both enchantments drawing information from this town,” he explained, “will now skip over it- as if their neighbor enchantment has done the work for them. Weeks of reports will be lost. We should still avoid causing a public scene but hunting within, say, a household or two will not cause us trouble.”

  
“Brilliant,” murmured Cygnus. Bella’s eyes mirrored his perfectly, keen with blood lust.

  
Andromeda watched Rodolphus for a moment, taking in his unpracticed smile. He’d put more effort into this than it might seem. His spell was simple but he also must have searched for the overlap, studying the geographical coverage of Ministry enchantments. Perhaps he’d even been assessing the methods and response times of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Was this the ‘analysis of enemy weak points’ Bella’s teacher had mentioned?

  
If so, it explained some of the unnameable wizard’s effectiveness. Even his friends knew how to get away with crime.

  
She glanced at the elder Lestrange brother, standing a pace away and not saying a word. Rabastan was watching Bellatrix, a knot between his brow. It was as though someone had told him about a hidden image in a painting. He was looking very hard. He was trying to see it but he couldn’t just yet. Whatever he expected to find, Bella had both the brothers’ attention.

  
Rodolphus’s interest hadn’t concerned Andy earlier. He was a taciturn stoic; he had nothing with which to lure people in but a somewhat handsome face and a fortune. Bella needed more than that. Still waters ran deep, however. Cygnus and Bella already liked Rodolphus far too much. He was catering effectively to their interests.

  
Andy herself didn’t see anything wrong with him personally. His percipience was impressive, weaponized though it was. The problem was he adored Bella’s teacher easily as much as Bella did. Soon, they’d be sitting around, breathlessly lauding achievements of the unnameable wizard and talking about how _right_ they were. Andy wanted to cure her sister of this misguided infatuation- not make it worse! At this rate, she’d have to find a way to poison Bella against the Lestranges.

  
She needed to get information fast and she needed to put a stop to this.

  
Unfortunately, the hunt only secured the Black-Lestrange association. Rabastan eventually conceded to speak as night fell. Quietly, he proposed a plan of attack. Cygnus thought of ways to make it bloodier. Bellatrix suggested a means by which to extend the muggles’ terror. Lastly, Rodolphus used a fancy bit of legilimency to pick a promising household.

  
It was rather more interesting than Andy’s first muggle hunt, she had to admit. Orion, Cygnus and Alphard had taken the girls while on a trip to the mainland. Many Wizarding governments were not so strict as the UK’s. The Blacks had chased a pair of muggles across a field on broomsticks. The muggles, harried with hexes from the flank, had ended up running right off a cliff.

  
This time, the targets were inside a house. The muggles, Andy noted with interest, were so engrossed in their telly-watching that it was easy to sneak in. She saw a middle-aged couple in the living room. According to Rodolphus, there was a teenage son upstairs. Cygnus cast a charm to seal the doors and windows. Rodolphus threw a hex at a wire, severing its connection to a button-covered device.

  
“Their telephone,” he explained in a breath. “They use it to call other muggles, like flooing but with voices only.”

  
“You know so much,” Bella praised him, clearly impressed.

  
He flashed her that rusty smile again.

  
The attack itself was gruesome. The telly winked out. Then the light bulbs burst. The unwary muggles startled out of their stupor, muttering about power failures and blown fuses. After some minutes of fumbling, they found candles and matches. The horrors began in this poor lighting.

  
Broken glass found its way beneath their feet. Doors they tried to go through slammed shut on their fingers. Bookcases fell over on them when they passed. The man attempted to use the phone after several minutes. Then he found the severed wire. They hastened upstairs, calling for their son.

  
The stairs themselves were a trial, smothered in hexes that tripped them as they ran. By the time they reached their son’s room, he had already stopped breathing. He’d been strangled to death with the belt of his school uniform. At that point, the woman started sobbing and screaming about ‘the devil.’

  
It was a bad day for these muggles. Andromeda commiserated to some degree- especially when Cygnus, Bellatrix and Rabastan revealed themselves. The sound of bones snapping and bitten-off screams filled the house. This level of violence was not upheld by all pureblood families, or even all those who liked to muggle hunt. Plenty of people, Andy understood, were satisfied just to frighten their prey. The Blacks, however- and the Lestranges too, it seemed- simply had a passion for cruelty.

  
From a spectator’s point of view, it was difficult to decide how to feel. The carnage was needless. At the same time, Andy could easily dismiss this as the Family’s endearing vice. It pleased her father and her sister. What was the harm? There were billions of muggles in the world. No one would be terribly devastated if there were suddenly three less.

  
She thought of Edith, Ted’s guileless and trusting sister. The young woman’s eyes had been innocent, not just free of darkness but incapable of it. Andy had another opinion then, one that directly contradicted the first. Screams echoed in her ears. What harm had these muggles ever done? Would it really be so bad just to leave them be?

  
Regardless of which inclination was better-founded, Andy could say with certainty that muggles were not her priority. She was here to save Bellatrix, not to torment or to pity wretched creatures. She dismissed her musings, watching the proceedings with lofty disinterest. Rodolphus was hanging back, looking on from the doorway. This was her chance. She moved to stand beside him.

  
“Your brother knows some interesting curses, Mr. Lestrange,” Andromeda remarked to him. Her voice was pitched to carry beneath the sobbing of the muggles. “My family has dozens of Dark Arts grimoires. Still, I’ve never heard of one that makes the victim’s teeth rip their way out through the cheeks. It looks tricky.”

  
“Oh- yes, indeed,” Rodolphus replied, looking vaguely nonplussed that she was speaking to him. “He learned that one in China. He’s always had a way with combat curses, no matter how foreign.”

  
“China,” Andy repeated with interest. “So the two of you traveled the world?”

  
“Not the entire world,” said Rodolphus cautiously, “and I did not always go with him. I was too young at first. I had to finish my time at Hogwarts.”

  
“And your remarkable friend,” Andy pressed. “Did he journey with you as well?”

  
Rodolphus glanced over the room, watching flecks of blood stain the muggle items around it. “You are a very inquisitive girl, Ms. Black,” he commented slowly, “but yes. The three of us spent most of our time in China and Egypt, then a bit more in the Mediterranean. We sought and studied many lost forms of magic.”

  
He turned his head, his dark eyes boring into hers. Andy blinked, considered and then reinforced her thoughts. Occlumency was difficult. It was still better to err on the side of caution.

  
“He speaks of your sister frequently,” said Rodolphus then clarified, “our friend. Apparently, she brims with talent. Does she study hard at school? Does she have a lot of friends?”

  
From that point, Andy’s fish for answers became difficult. Rodolphus turned the conversation around, looking for information on Bellatrix. Andy wasn’t sure she wanted to give it to him. She had to evade his inquiries, steer the dialogue toward Bella’s teacher and maintain a friendly tone of voice. Concerning the unnameable wizard, she learned nothing truly usable. When she asked about future plans, Rodolphus gave her the same, whole-hearted ‘making the world better’ tripe that Bella did. When she asked about methods, he said they used methods that worked.

  
Andy attempted to sort through her findings. One brother hunted people down, determined the best way to enter buildings and was very good at curses. The other brother watched, studying institutions. Had they cultivated these skills in order to stay out of prison? Or was something else brewing? Avoiding the Ministry was one thing but this setup could just as well be the foundation of an all-out attack. Would Bella’s teacher actually go that far?

  
Andy watched her sister burning the muggle woman’s hair. She had laugh on her lips, her delight making her incandescent. How would she react if she knew her beloved mentor planned to take over the Wizarding World?

  
Andy could answer that question readily: Bella would react exactly as she _had been_ acting. She’d worship him. Nothing short of drastic measures and insane ambitions could satisfy her so well. If he wasn’t aiming to break the Ministry in half, she’d have never come to love him like this.

  
Andy had her conclusion.

  
Then Bellatrix was cheerfully setting the house on fire and they all had to leave.

 

o0O0o

 

As fondly as Voldemort has always thought of pureblood society, its outlooks are logically flawed. Prejudice is a symptom of pride, not a valid point of contention. It sprouts from the distrust of outsiders and change. It is steeped in arrogance, a means by which to exalt oneself and feel superior. Purebloods hate muggles blindly. Their fathers and grandfathers loathed muggles, everyone they associate with loathes muggles and so they loathe muggles. How jolly it is, having someone to sneer at over fire whiskey and cigars.

  
At the end of the day, however, purebloods know nothing _about_ muggles.

  
Wizarding Society is insular. Its laws and its customs isolate it from the rest of humanity. Half-bloods and muggleborns swiftly abandon their lackluster mundane lives in favor of a more vibrant option. As they become entangled in the magical world, muggle information is gradually shunted out. They attend Hogwarts and learn to cast charms. Math and science fade as forgotten dreams. By the time they graduate, they no longer fit in with their origins. They must seek employment among other wizards. It’s the only viable follow up to their education. Thus, even those witches and wizards who come from the muggle world rarely examine it. The absence of knowledge is perpetuated.

  
To further this separation, the Muggle Studies class long offered by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is a joke. Its students learn the uses of microwaves and television sets. Muggle history, weaponry, industrialism and the concurrent pernicious effects on the world are all omitted. The back of a cereal box has more to say about the truth.

  
Andromeda didn’t see any worthwhile reason to hunt down and slaughter muggles. To her, it was like randomly murdering lambs. She also didn’t understand what she was looking at.

  
Voldemort, on the other hand, knows muggles very well. He suffered through a childhood of their inadequate care. He’s seen them snap under strain and turn on those they claimed to protect. He has witnessed their wars, their dark hours, the violence and exploitation hidden beneath shams of civility. He’s breathed the acrid smoke of air ruined by their factories. He’s walked among them, listening to their delusional, self-indulging thoughts. He does not hate them blindly as the purebloods do.

  
He hates them knowingly.

  
He abhors them for tangible, compelling reasons and every piece of his perspective is substantiated. Their natures, their behaviors, their preferences and their habits- he can pick it all apart and explain exactly why it repulses him.

  
What about innocent Edith? Innocence is the absence of knowledge the way darkness is the absence of light. Edith Tonks was lucky to be given the resources she needed: food, shelter and love. Because she received them, however, she assumed her personal experiences reflected the world. Had she really puzzled through it, she could have discovered the truth- but no one asks questions with terrible answers. She lived in a rosy, little bubble. She never _grew up_. Her happy family, her religion, her television, her status as a student becoming status as a consumer- all of them were coping mechanisms that shut out reality.

  
Perhaps Edith was kind enough to try and help the people she did see suffering. The effective horse blinders of her lifestyle prevented her from seeing very clearly. Thus, she was able to view herself as a ‘good’ individual and ‘helping’ never cost her too much. Voldemort doubts she’s changed in all these years. She’ll live and die predictably, comfortable with her lies and her lack of control. She’ll affect minimal change on her surroundings. No one will care very much when she’s gone.

  
_That’s_ what innocence is.

  
Now multiply people like that times several billion. Multiply the lack of responsibility, the aversion to foresight, the surrender of control. Multiply the prioritization of comfort over awareness. Multiply the selfishness that refuses to see a starving, beaten child. They work together to create societies where uncomfortable ideas are hidden. Innocence is a collective fabrication, the complicit counterpart of crime. Truth is painful and the world is populated with people who want to be happy.

  
Voldemort wants to purge the Wizarding World of its lies. Those with magic have more potential and a higher capacity to act. He wants to tear away the blindfolds put upon smiling fools. Comfort cannot coexist with strength. Unpleasant though truth is, acknowledging it is empowering. The ignorant fail to accomplish their goals while the knowing succeed. Not only does this apply on an individual basis, it applies on a societal one. A strong world, a world of Slytherin-types who assess relevant factors, will gradually move away from chaos.

  
In his cold, ruthless way, Voldemort does this for society’s own good. His people can be more than they are.

  
When Bellatrix knocks on his door that evening, he is five scrolls into writing a new Muggle Studies curriculum. He sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, his notes scribbling themselves out in the air beside him. Nagini is lying on the rug at his feet, still bloated from her last meal. Nearby, muggle books are stacked everywhere upon his desk. Most concern wars of the past century, the latest innovations in military-grade weaponry and reports on environmental hazards. There are so many cases of mass cruelty, both in war and in peace, that Voldemort has material aplenty. His task now is to organize the information into a fluid persuasive rhetoric with cutting impact.

  
He barely has to make an argument at all. He doesn’t have to lie to make muggles sound more terrible than his Death Eaters. The governments of poor countries steal their people’s bread to buy finer luxury cars. Richer countries pump out plastic to poison the oceans, smoke to sully the air. Debt is wracked up to support vanity and hedonism. Leaders commission larger nuclear weapons to compensate for their individual irrelevance. It’s not sustainable. Anyone who looks at the data would conclude that muggles need to be saved from themselves.

  
As Bella enters the room, she gives his research materials a puzzled look. He has spared her the responsibility of giving him her second anecdote- as least for the time being. Telling him about Andromeda even once upset her deeply. She’s been in enough of a state lately. He likes to push her. He’s still cognizant of her limits. Thus, he did not stay with her last night, instead giving her time to stabilize. Today, she has been tutoring Draco and aiding her sister. He actually wasn’t sure he’d even see her.

  
Then again, it is not so surprising; it doesn’t seem she can help herself.

  
“My lord,” she greets him with a curtsy.

  
“Bella,” he replies, leafing absently through a book. “What is it?”

  
She strays closer. He can see her in his periphery as she peers at his work. “I only wondered if I could be of any assistance…” she answers. “Is this work for Hogwarts?”

  
“There is a staggering amount to be done,” he affirms, frowning. “We will not even be able to make a full assessment until the Ministry falls. I am trying to do as much of the preparations as possible while there’s still ample time. Muggle Studies, Defense Against the Dark Arts and History of Magic are the most problematic subjects. Severus suggests we simply procure a history teacher from overseas. The puritanical roots of the States have kept MACUSA wary of muggles. Thus, they have little political agenda in lying to their youth. Ilvermorny’s curriculum is fairly accurate.”

  
Bella makes a face at the mention of Severus. He may as well have told her that he takes advice from a jar of maggots. The way her nose scrunches up has him biting back a laugh.

  
“To answer your question though, yes,” Voldemort adds mildly. “Your assistance would be much appreciated.” He conjures blank parchment, ink and a quill then spells the muggle books off onto the floor. “I’m planning to select promising students from the fifth, sixth and seventh year classes. If they show a talent for dueling, I’ll arrange for them to have extra lessons. You have decades of field experience, teaching experience and great success in combat. Your insights would be very useful to them.”

  
Bella’s eyes brighten and she goes to the desk. She lights the candles there with a thought. “Certainly, master,” she says at once. “I’ll try to list out some helpful tactics.”

  
They spend the next few hours writing and Voldemort progresses through his curriculum draft. When the night has deepened, they trade notes. Bella’s insights are indeed very educational. She has contrasted fighting aurors and fighting Order of the Phoenix militia, for instance. Aurors, on average, have a higher level of skill in combat. However, since they have all been trained the same way, a knowledgeable attacker can exploit weaknesses in their technique. She has explained these weaknesses at length. The Order, conversely, possesses little uniformity in combat styles. On average, they are easier to defeat. However, now and then, a skillful one pops up. The unpredictability of this occurrence can be dangerous.

  
Bellatrix has also mentioned in-combat psychology, how gory curses can be used to intimidate, how quick and practical attacks should be used on more powerful enemies. She has discussed common enemy tactics, both offensive and defensive. In short, her written thoughts are a gold mine. Unfortunately, Voldemort will have to reword a lot of her points before he can feed them to children. Bellatrix is used to training hot-blooded Death Eater recruits. The current, politically-confused youth of the world will take a more subtle approach.

  
“Muggles can-” Bellatrix is reading Voldemort’s curriculum draft, her brow knitted in confusion. “…obliterate entire cities at once? Surely that cannot be!”

  
“It’s not a weapon they can turn against Wizarding kind,” Voldemort soothes her absently, still absorbed in her combat notes. “We’re threaded through their societies, few and far between. Their weapons of mass destruction are more a danger to themselves. And to the ecosystem.”

  
“Ah…” she hums under her breath and squints more closely at his writing. “I always knew they were an abominable infestation. I never realized so much damage has been done by allowing them to exist. Master, we must act quickly!”

  
“That’s what we’re doing, dear heart,” he says. Then he reads an incredibly effective and gruesome strategy she’s written down and he bursts out laughing. “Feed captives vials of explosive solution and then let them think they’ve escaped?”

  
“They always run right back to their little friends,” Bella explains. “By the time the potion detonates, they’re surrounded by concerned allies. It kills six or seven rebels for the effort of killing one. Of course, I only use it in specific situations. I have to be certain first that I’m not fighting purebloods.”

  
“Even the child of blood traitors can learn to care about society,” he agrees. “You work hard not to spill blood that is precious. They will praise your compassion some day.”

  
She beams at him then lapses into silence. He returns to her writing. After a minute, however, she rises and wanders over to him. She seats herself at his feet, leaning against the chair.

  
He watches the top of her head for a moment. She is intruding on his space and she’d never have dared before. At the same time, she does not touch him. She is minding his request of her. Her time alone has gifted her with clarity. She found a way to achieve intimacy without crossing the line.

  
She’s a clever strategist. He finds he doesn’t mind this closeness at all. Is this her way of slipping through his defenses? She’s potent when she remembers to be subtle. Not much time passes until his fingers are threaded through her hair, until she’s leaning tenderly into his touch. The intimacy has become natural.

  
It’s obvious what this is but he refuses to admit it. It’s insidious. He adamantly denies the damning, telltale signs. Thus far, she’s driven him to his wit’s end. She’s left him lost, furious and incapacitated. She’s convinced him to want things he before never wanted. She plays on old hurts and desires he thought he smothered. She stumbles, it’s true, thwarted by the desperation of her hunger. She’s like a raptor so starved that she has trouble catching her prey.

  
Nonetheless, in the end, which of them is more hindered? She’s established a hold on him and she uses it to control what he does. He calls it a luxury? Her warmth and her sweetness? It’s the same as the tricks her plays on her. He cannot have the bait without springing the trap. He cannot enjoy her presence without getting ensnared.

  
Voldemort looks down at her. He can only see her hair spilled across his white hand. He can’t see her face. Her thoughts are even more unknowable. How long has she been planning this? Rodolphus made himself her resource. Bastan soon followed, applying his past to the ambitions of Bellatrix Black. Is their plan finally coming to fruition? Voldemort is inwardly inclined to sneer. He has always had the upper hand. He’s always gotten the best of them.

  
He can’t even bring himself to say if or how much Bella is succeeding. He would have to acknowledge too many of the weak emotions he refutes, shuts out and crushes. He would have to deny himself the solace he finds in her. He’d have to stop thinking about Meissa when the world gets too cold.

  
Voldemort does not live to pursue happiness. He lives because he’s angry and because the alternative is death. Sometimes he feels as though his entire campaign to improve society- his vengeance and his meticulous designs- is whimsical. He does it for the sake of having something to do. That’s how bitter he is. That’s the worthlessness of existence. He feels no jealousy for happy families either. How could he? The vast majority of happiness is founded upon lies. A bit of logic would make it disintegrate.

  
Bella, however, genuinely pleases him. Despite the brutal standards he sets for others, she delights and impresses him. She has valuable things to say. She’s competent and resilient. She makes him laugh. The happiness- is that what it is?- she gives him doesn’t seem like a lie at all. Perhaps she merely hides the falsehoods well. Perhaps her strategy is that masterful.

  
He cannot bring himself to make the choice this time between comfort and strength. For now, it’s worth getting caught. He’ll deny how much it pleases in order to deny the danger. It’s a luxury, just a luxury. There is no risk to him if he remains disconnected.

  
He lets the parchment fall from his grasp. His magic carries it quietly over to the desk where it stacks itself. Then he tightens his grip on Bella’s hair and gives a sharp tug. She startles.

  
“Come along,” he says, standing. “It’s late.”

  
He takes her to bed in the dwindling firelight.

 

o0O0o

 

Bastan and Rod return Thursday evening, mindful of Saturday’s plans. The time leading up to their arrival was productive. Voldemort worked on the Hogwarts curriculum in Bella’s company, occasionally picking her brain or trading conversation. She is one of the few people who can remain in his presence for long periods of time without annoying him. She milked her new status as his lover for all it was worth, of course- appearing without being summoned, sitting near him without invitation- but she minded his boundaries.

  
He spent the nights with her, sometimes in his rooms, sometimes in hers. When restlessness overcame him, he went out wandering the estate. He took her with him.

  
She’s clever and lethally good at what she does. She enhances his thought process rather than hindering it. When it comes to magical theory, she has her family’s encyclopedic knowledge of Dark Arts spells. When it comes to strategy, she points out practical and brutal approaches. Her suggestions are not always viable but they _are_ always amusing.

  
It’s not Voldemort’s mind that Bellatrix troubles, not in the slightest.

  
They even spoke of Meissa during one of their walks, eyeing passing peacocks in distaste. Lucius and Narcissa’s manor, of course, is no place to raise their child. Voldemort said so and Bellatrix agreed at once. He told her they’d consider options with the brothers, once the Ministry and Potter are dealt with. He wrapped his arm around her in the evening shadows.

  
She nestled too easily against him. He removed himself from the moment, stepping back into the depths of his mind.

  
The brothers, for their part, have also been productive. They sit with Voldemort in the drawing room a while, giving him their reports. Bastan is travel worn, speckled with grass, dirt and blood. He killed a considerable number of traitors and rebels. He and his unit even uncovered an Order of the Phoenix safe house during their hunt. Rod brings news from their recruiting operations. He corrected a few bad practices and caught two aurors trying to infiltrate the ranks. He also oversaw their torture, interrogation and execution.

  
Voldemort studies the brothers’ faces as they speak. If they are waiting eagerly for news of Bella’s progress, they give no sign of it. He tells them nothing, keeping the conversation focused on their work. When they part, he reminds them of tomorrow’s preparations and bids them get a good night’s sleep.

  
Then he goes to find Draco.

  
The peerless occlumency of the Lestranges has become a thorn in Voldemort’s side. He is certain of their loyalty and he requires them to be able to protect his secrets. More and more pressingly, however, he wishes to know their designs. To manage their high ambitions, he must remain one step ahead. How do they conspire together? What information is traded in whispers? He cannot see into their heads and he can learn only so much from examining their rooms. Fortunately, any pair of eyes can become his window.

  
The boy is curled on a third floor window seat, staring out at the dark summer night. He doesn’t hear Voldemort approach. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Voldemort greets him.

  
“Draco,” Voldemort murmurs. Draco has nearly fallen on his face in the process of standing up and bowing. Voldemort says nothing of it, fixing him with a smile. “How are you this evening?”

  
“Very well, my lord,” the boy lies, his eyes on the floor. “I am eager. Auntie Bella has been telling me stories of fighting the Order. I’ve- I’ve been looking forward to facing them. They’ve got it coming. That damned Potter too.”

  
“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Voldemort responds, indulging the boy’s attempt at bravado. “If you have nothing to do at this particular moment, however, would you do me a favor?”

  
Draco looks like he’d rather throw himself out the window. His face is sickly pale. “I would be honored,” he lies again.

  
Voldemort leans closer in a confidential fashion. “Oh, not to worry, boy,” he soothes Draco quietly. “No one’s done anything wrong. What I need from you is a very little thing. Your aunt and uncles, you see, are still troubled by Azkaban. They lapsed into some dangerous moods several weeks ago. They seem to have recovered but it’s hard to be sure. They wouldn’t tell me if they needed my help. They wish to appear strong. Do you understand?”

  
“Yes, my lord,” Draco utters, his eyes blanking somewhat. He veiled his thoughts as soon as he realized Voldemort was there. Still, Voldemort guesses he is thinking about his father- if Lucius would still be tormented and mad years later.

  
“Good,” says Voldemort, taking the boy’s shoulder. He feels rather than sees Draco flinch; his fingers tighten. “Come with me. We’ll take this opportunity while they’re catching up with your parents.”

  
He tows the boy down the corridors at a leisurely pace. He knows he has plenty of time. Narcissa and Lucius aren’t as mindful with occlumency as they should be. He can see Bella, Rod and Bastan through their eyes, gathered together in the parlor. He takes Draco to Rod and Bella’s suite, then to a cabinet in the sitting room.

  
He opens the doors, sweeps some books aside and pushes the baffled boy inside. Draco sits awkwardly in the cramped space, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head bowed. His eyes are wide with fearful confusion.

  
“It’s very simple,” Voldemort explains softly, watching Draco‘s pallid face. “Listen to Auntie Bella and Uncle Rod talking. Once they go to their bedroom for the night, get out of the cabinet and leave. Lastly, come tell me if they remain sound of mind. Can you do that, Draco?”

  
“Yes, my lord,” the boy says again, throat bobbing as he swallows. “But what if they find me?”

  
“Bellatrix dotes on you,” Voldemort points out. “What do you expect she’ll do? Torture you like you’re a thieving mudblood?”

  
“No, I- I’m sure she wouldn’t-” Draco stammers. “It was a foolish question. Forgive me.”

  
“There you have it,” Voldemort concludes. He grows bored of acting sympathetic and lets his voice fall flat. “I’ll be waiting for you in my study then. Try not to disappoint me.”

  
He closes the cabinet doors and leaves the suite.

  
Obviously, Voldemort doesn’t need Draco to report to him. The only thing he needs from Draco is access to his mind. In Voldemort’s presence, the boy’s occlumency is skillful. Now that Voldemort has quit the room, it grows increasingly more lax. Soon, Voldemort can make out the thin line of light between the cabinet doors. He can feel the edge of a book digging into Draco’s hip. He notes the cramping of Draco’s neck and the tickle of dust beneath Draco’s nose.

  
Voldemort goes and sits down in his study. Meanwhile, he can hear everything that’s said in Bella and Rod’s suite.

  
It takes some time for the Lestranges to leave the Malfoys’ company. Narcissa is trying again to convince them to go to Andromeda’s house and kill the Tonks family. She has no more success with Rod and Bastan than she did with Bella. After all, the brothers have that habit of letting Bellatrix take the lead. They offer their sympathies when they hear of Voldemort’s ultimatum. They give no opinions on what to do about Nymphadora.

  
It takes long enough for Draco to wonder if he’s done for. He never knows what the Dark Lord’s game is. His only strategy so far has been to keep his mouth shut, try to seem enthusiastic when he can’t and to obey. If he’s being pitted against the Lestranges however, he has no idea what he’ll do. What will they say if they find him? Will Bellatrix really not care? She always advises him to do exactly what the Dark Lord says. If he claims their master ordered him to hide in this cabinet, however, will the Dark Lord find out and punish him?

  
Then there’s the matter of why he’s really being ordered to spy. He needs to assess whether or not the Lestranges are ‘alright?’ What are they going to talk about when they think no one’s listening? Auntie Bella sounds like a lunatic no matter who she’s with. What could possibly be worse than what she already says?

  
Draco feels a clammy sweat breaking out on his back. He reigns his nerves in, numbing his emotions this time instead of his thoughts. He has to stay calm. He wouldn’t be surprised if his aunt and uncle can pick out the sound of a quickened heartbeat.

  
The door of the suite creaks open, followed by a soft thump. Draco stares at the line of light, straining his ears. The thick carpets Mother ordered from France make it hard to hear footsteps. Then the light shining through the cabinet briefly winks out as someone passes in front of it. Draco holds his breath.

  
“I told you already,” Auntie is saying, her voice quiet but agitated. “It’s precarious. It seems as though I’ve made progress…but who can really tell with _him?_ He doesn’t seem any more interested than he ever has.”

  
“That’s not what it sounded like in your letter,” Uncle replies carefully. “We thought it was hopeless before. We thought we’d have to wait until Mei is born. You got through to him.”

  
Bellatrix exhales harshly. Draco hears a sound like metal thwacking against wood. “Perhaps. Rod, you have to reason through it for me. I keep playing that night over and over in my mind. The meeting, the fight, when he caught me sending a message to Andy. What was it that made him decide to stay? I didn’t do anything differently!”

  
“The whole matter with your niece,” Rodolphus speculates, “it could have just been a tipping point. An excuse.”

  
“He is the Dark Lord,” Bella disagrees. “He may have whatever he desires.”

  
“If he desires it, yes,” her husband allows, “but if it’s merely a whim? He may choose not to act until there is an opportunity.”

  
Auntie makes a contemplative noise in response and lapses into silence.

  
“I think this is a fantastic situation, Bella,” Rodolphus tells her warmly. “No one has ever achieved even this much. In all these decades I have been beside him, there’s been no one. It’s just as I told you. The way he reacts to you is singular. Now we just have to wait. Be patient, my love.”

  
“ _I_ have to wait,” Bella corrects him. “ _You_ need to figure him out. I don’t know how to tempt him, how to appeal to him! Tell me what I’m doing right, Rod! Before I mess it up!”

  
“I will do my best,” he promises, “but it’s not like I was there. With a secondhand account, there’s a limit to what I can deduce-”

  
He’s cut off by a peal of Bellatrix’s laughter. “I knew it!” she chortles, mocking in her mirth. “I _knew_ you’d be after my memories!”

  
“It’s not like that,” Rod denies at once, a breath of laughter in his own words. “I’m trying to help.”

  
“And how helpful will you be,” she purrs, “when you lose your focus? Maybe I should simply give a long, detailed account of everything our master said to me. Hmm? How about that, my _loving_ and _helpful_ husband?”

  
“I am at your mercy,” Uncle tells her earnestly. “I _exist_ to be of use to you. Without you, my ambitions are nothing. If you wish to cast me away like trash, I can only accept it.”

  
“It’s dull when you surrender too quickly,” Bella baits him. The light between the cabinet doors flickers again.

  
“I apologize,” he breathes back. “Should I be more persistent?”

  
“You should ask me _nicely_.”

  
There is a minute of silence then a sound like a bitten off gasp. Bella’s laughter again spills through the room.

  
“Come then,” she says and her voice gets farther away. “Maybe I’ll show you…a bit. Maybe. I still need convincing.”

  
Draco hears the sound of the bedroom door. He holds his breath, watching the thin line of light. After minute, he pushes the doors open. He thanks his lucky stars when they don’t creak. The sitting room is empty. He unfolds his body slowly, clenching his jaw against the aches.

  
In the other room, Rodolphus is asking something about the sheets. Draco stands, trying to move and breathe and think quietly. He straightens slowly, shutting the cabinet doors. Bellatrix exclaims, “of course I didn't!” and they both burst out laughing. Draco doubts he’ll get a better chance so he hastens straight out of the room. The door of the suite creaks a bit but they don’t seem to hear it. He hurries away down the corridor, sagging with relief.

  
Voldemort withdraws from his mind, especially as the boy’s defenses begin to return. Learning personal details about people is an inescapable part of reading minds. It’s never particularly pleasant, unearthing a filthy secret or a disturbing perversion. Voldemort knows far more about some of his followers than he wants to. The more elite of the group, such as the Lestranges and Severus, never lower their guard. He knows what he infers and what they choose to show him.

  
The revelations Draco provided give Voldemort mixed feelings. It’s somehow captivating to hear Bella and Rod interact. They are always so careful when they are with him. It’s as though they suppress their true personalities. So this is their method then? Bella engages Voldemort, attempts to gain closeness and Rod helps her analyze the results?

  
The transition between combat and domesticity is seamless. They act exactly the same in their free hours as they do when fighting. There is both intimacy and trust between them. They want the same thing. They need each other to get it. There is no basis for conflict or dissent.

  
On a less wholesome note, it is easily the most indirect, incomprehensible triangular liaison Voldemort did _not_ seek to join. Rod’s interests, whether psychological, platonic or base, don't need to be examined. He has some French ancestry, as his surname would imply. Perhaps that’s the source of this strangeness. Voldemort prefers to maintain strictly British sensibilities.

  
More importantly, Bella and Rod are dissecting his actions. They want to discern the perfect bait with which to entice him. He’ll have to throw them off somehow. He knows what they are doing. He will think of ways to mislead them.

  
There is a knock on the study door. That would be Draco, perfectly on time.

  
“Enter,” says Voldemort.

  
“My lord,” Draco says, taking a few steps into the room and bowing low. “I have done as you asked.”

  
“And how were they?” Voldemort inquires. “Did they seem themselves?”

  
“Yes, my lord,” the boy answers duly. “They didn’t seem any different than usual. They were talking about…how much they admire you and how to get more of your favor. That’s how they normally are…isn’t it?”

  
It’s interesting what the boy has decided to report. Voldemort doesn’t really care what Draco’s take on the conversation is however. It’s time to finish this game.

  
“Indeed it is,” he affirms, playing his part with grace. “Draco, this is a great relief to hear. I’ve been so worried about them. Thank you for putting my concerns to rest. You did well.”

  
Draco bows again quickly. “I am honored to be of use, my lord.”

  
“You may go.” Voldemort shoos him with a wave of his hand. Draco backs out of the room and shuts the door behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

It is Voldemort’s habit to stay aware of the people around him. If he knows their desires, he knows their motives. Learning their fears gives him leverage. Regardless of how much he likes or dislikes someone, understanding their thought process is advantageous. He immerses himself in their minds to maintain control. He has done little else these past few weeks, as the Malfoys skulked in the shadows, as the Lestranges hunted his heart like a pack of starving wolves.

  
It’s situational awareness. It’s the essence of how he commands such dangerous people. Use or be used. His ability with magic is remarkable and rare. Nonetheless, it’s his untrusting, unflinching mastery of exploitation and psycho-manipulation that allow him to maintain control.

  
Potter, however, seizes the span of Voldemort’s focus and narrows it down to an inch.  
Suddenly, there is no living person in the world. The Death Eaters are tools. Members of the Order are obstructions. The Ministry is irrelevant and muggles are bugs. Not one of them is worthy of Voldemort’s attention. He couldn’t focus on their feelings if he tried.

  
By all accounts, the boy is nothing; instead, he has brought Voldemort disaster and ruin. Time after time, Voldemort has arranged his pieces. He has implemented his greatest of weapons, logic, against the boy who possesses none. Time after time, the odds have been in his favor- but if there is a two or three percent chance of the boy escaping, the boy invariably escapes. Surely, at long last, this incomprehensible _luck_ is at its end.

  
Privet Drive is an unremarkable muggle street. One house is indistinguishable from the next, just as this street is indistinguishable from its neighbor. Though lacking in individuality, the residents take pride in their community. They have manicured lawns, dignified schools and correctly British neighbors. Clearly, that means they are superior humans beings. They have physical, tangible proof of their value. They live here so they’re better than the people over there.

  
At least, that’s the sort of drivel Voldemort hears buzzing around in their heads- like flies over rot. He shuts out the noise and directs his senses at Number Four.

  
It’s late in the evening. He’s had Wormtail watching the house all day for signs of movement. He never expected the Order to make a move before nightfall. With the new restrictions imposed by a bewitched Pius Thicknesse, they will be reduced to slower means of travel. They will take the skies and thus, they will need the cover of darkness.

  
Still, in the matter of Potter, Voldemort prefers to err on the side of caution.

  
Voldemort has come to Privet Drive with a scant number of his followers. Despite the shadows, he’d only risk spooking the Order by summoning the bulk of his forces. He stands upon the rooftop of a house across and two doors down from Number Four. He keeps Draco close at his elbow, the boy’s sleeve rolled back. The Lestranges and Severus stand on other rooftops, broomsticks in hand, sharp gazes scanning the shadowed street. When the time comes, he will call on the rest. They will flock to him. Until that moment, the best of his hunters are here. Not a second’s delay will keep them from their prey.

  
Number Four still bears the most elegant of protections. The old magic wards weave through and around the architecture. They are steady and selfless, like a mother standing in front of her child or dragging her starved body through London snow. Dumbledore milked Lily Potter’s sacrifice for all that it was worth. Even he, however, could not extend it beyond the boy’s seventeenth birthday. The wards are failing- but not because of the approaching deadline. No, it is because of the plan. It is because Severus’s information is correct. Soon, this wretched box will no longer be Harry Potter’s home. The wards can only persevere so long as he lives with his kin.

  
Then like clockwork, the events unfold. Two members of the Order appear at the front door and, after some time, shepherd three muggles out and into a car. Voldemort reaches for the muggles with his mind, absorbing their thoughts as they exit the house’s protection. He finds vapid, unoriginal perspectives tinged with resentment, confliction and fear. These people, the Dursleys, are livestock. Potter is not disguised and hidden among them. It seems even the Order will not stoop to smuggling the boy out in a muggle’s likeness.

  
Then the others come.

  
Voldemort does not move an inch, his eyes fixed on the garden. The rest of the Order is stealthier than the first two. They wear disillusionment charms. They arrive from different directions, skulking up from between houses or descending from the sky. Most are on broomsticks but they have brought thestrals as well. The flying motorbike is the loudest. Voldemort almost doubts his eyes at the sight of Rubeus Hagrid- the oafish, dull-witted half giant he once framed for the murder of Myrtle Warren. That one will be a decoy, most certainly. The Order would never trust such a fool with something as important as Potter’s life.

  
They go into the house through the back door. The neighborhood is silent.

  
Voldemort draws a slow breath. The night air is rich with the taste of triumph, so tantalizingly near. The setbacks from his fall still plague him. The vexation and the fury still seethe. Voldemort knows very well, however, that nothing soothes pain like obliterating its cause. Dumbledore is dead. Harry Potter is the final obstacle. The United Kingdoms are in his hands already. Conquering the world beyond will be nothing more than an enjoyable mental exercise. Once the boy is dead, Voldemort will reshape society. He will create beautiful and efficient institutions to replace the false and superfluous. He will indulge in the unexpectedly intriguing diversions his friends have provided. He will raise his child.

  
He will be able to live.

  
He casts a silent spell, pulling individually on the Dark Marks of each Lestrange and Severus. Their eyes snap to him from their specific positions. He lifts one hand, pointing quietly upward. They mount their brooms and rise into the sky.

  
Voldemort then turns to Draco. The boy has occluded so thoroughly that his emotions are completely shut down- like Narcissa at a Death Eater meeting. “Up we go,” Voldemort murmurs.

  
Draco nods, mounting his broom with deft ease and rising upward. Voldemort goes with him, his body and robes dissolving into smoke. High in the air, he takes Draco’s arm and presses the boy’s Mark with his father’s wand.

  
Snapping sounds fill the summer night as Death Eaters appear all around. There are thirty of them all together- the competent fighters, the able flyers, the puppet masters and their bewitched thralls. They form a vast circle, silent and unseen in their black robes. The tactics of tonight are all pre-planned. They will surround the Order and the first to find Potter will summon their lord. The boy shall be Voldemort’s to kill. Another unit of Death Eaters waits ready to raid Number Four once the protections fall- just in case the emerging Order is a decoy. More are placed within the Ministry, monitoring the floo network, portkey travel and apparition. Every loose thread is accounted for. All that remains is the fight.

  
The sky erupts when fourteen Order of the Phoenix members rise as unwitting lambs to the slaughter.

  
This chaotic scene is one Voldemort knows well. His forces engage but he takes those first precious seconds to assess the enemy. Hexes and stunners fly back and forth in bolts of light. Electric lights of the muggle world glitter below, flowing down highways, more numerous than the stars. There are seven groups amidst the Order, seven protectors and seven Harry Potters. In this cacophony of emotions and thought, even the best legilimency cannot help Voldemort find the real one. They have used Polyjuice- that tricky and tedious potion, the trade of which is bogged down by dozens of Ministry regulations. They must have had this planned months in advance. He hadn’t expected such cunning; they’ve certainly never been cunning before.

  
Regardless, it is no matter. The Order takes off in seven different directions and the Death Eaters pursue each group. Voldemort’s followers know Harry Potter’s trademarks well. They will delay the Order’s escape until the real Potter can be identified. When that moment comes, they have only to call Voldemort via their Mark.

  
He joins the fray, choosing his target. In such violence, surely Potter would be safest with the Order’s most powerful fighter. In a trail of smoke, he shoots north after Alastor Moody and his companion. Three Death Eaters are already in pursuit, trading curses with the pair on the broom. Voldemort descends from above, faster and smoother in his flight. He closes the distance quickly, gaze honing on the boy behind Moody. Green eyes lock with his and go wide with horror. Potter’s mouth opens in a scream- but Voldemort already knows as he lifts his wand that it isn’t Potter. Moody turns, sparks blazing off of a shielding charm as he blocks a curse, shouting to the imposter. Voldemort’s killing curse flies. The mimic disapparates. The green bolt of light hits Moody squarely in the face.

  
Voldemort doesn’t waste time watching the auror’s corpse fall. He is concentrating too fiercely for satisfaction, too intently for annoyance. He saw Kingsley in the group. Kingsley too is an experienced and competent auror- Potter must be with him. Voldemort directs the nearby Death Eaters after the closest pair due north. He, however, follows strings of thought across the sky. He sifts through the minds of his followers, touches on the minds of his enemies and…there. Kingsley, heading west.

  
He crosses the distance in less than a minute.

  
The chase is vicious here as well. Five Death Eaters pelt after Kingsley and his Potter who ride a thestral. The skeletal beast is swift and agile, evading curses with the powerful strokes of its wings. Voldemort quickly notes that this Potter is braver, fiercely shooting stunners back at his troops. There are few coherent thoughts to be harvested in the thick of battle, especially from the head of a child. The visceral emotions he detects however are promising- anger, fear, a powerful desire to protect loved ones. There’s a flavor of youth as well; this mind is not mature. Is it him? Is it the real Potter?

  
He closes the distance. He is almost near enough to attack when he gets a glimpse of this Potter’s face, this Potter’s green eyes. It’s a witch. Males and females think differently; he can tell as soon as he gets past her battle-frenzied thoughts. This one too is a decoy.

  
Who is Potter with then? The final and youngest auror, Nymphadora Tonks? Bellatrix shot straight after the girl with Rod and Bastan but the Lestranges have not called for him. Can he trust their judgement? He certainly doesn’t trust them to kill Nymphadora. From the start, he bade Bella slay her niece only as a means of stabilizing her mind. Bella knows that, she can sense his indifference and apparently, she thinks she can get away with just about anything…

  
Can he trust her to evaluate Potter’s identity logically? Or will she be playing cat and mouse, going through the motions of attacking the girl, with every intention of letting them escape?  
He makes up his mind to check, if only for a moment- and then he feels the summons.

  
Voldemort apparates at once, drawn to the Death Eater who calls him.

  
It’s Selwyn with his puppets, falling back from the chase to greet Voldemort. “Master,” he cries, “it’s Potter- on the motorbike with the half-giant! He cast the disarming charm on my thrall!”

  
Expelliarmus is Potter’s signature move. Voldemort can still hear the boy screaming it in the graveyard three years ago, eyes blazing defiantly. He feels a surge of triumph and the feeling burns in his cold veins.

  
“Forward,” he orders through the crackling night air, “flank them.”

  
He does have a doubt as he chases his quarry. He has studied both the Order and Potter closely.

  
He was there in person at the boy’s first Quidditch match. Potter is as natural on a broom as a bird taking wing. Why would they put him in the sidecar of a clunking, enchanted muggle contraption, all of that elegant maneuverability put to waste? Why would they leave a magically-inept oaf as his only protector? It was a bluff. Voldemort can see that much. The Order betted so much on the absurdity of this choice and he will give them that. It’s _absolutely_ absurd. Nonetheless, the game is up. Voldemort faces Hagrid and a brat with no broom. The Order should not have placed all their eggs in a metal, muggle-made basket.

  
He begins flinging curses before he is even in range. They miss by a hairsbreadth. All the stunners are coming from Potter. As Voldemort draws near, he hones in on the boy’s mind- and yes! That’s him, that’s the accursed, undying child! He can hear his thoughts and yes, Potter sees him-

  
Harry sees Voldemort flying like smoke on the wind, without broomstick or thestral to hold him, his snake-like face gleaming out of the blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again. Hagrid is bellowing in fear, steering the motorbike down in a frantic dive. Harry can barely hold on, his fingers clenching tight onto Hagrid’s jacket as he send stunners blindly outward. He hits one of the Death Eaters, he knows it-

  
But Voldemort knows it is only a thrall under the Imperious Curse. He knows too easily how to sabotage the enchanted machine. His charm rushes up like a cloud around the bike, snapping gears and subverting the engine. The motorbike plummets, rattling violently and Selwyn’s third thrall dives after it. The half-giant screams as the puppet draws near, throwing himself off the bike at his enemy. Now there is only Potter, alone on a falling machine, and no one left to die for him.

  
“Mine,” Voldemort calls sharply, exhilaration and hatred and want burning in his throat. Selwyn falls back, clearing his shot at Potter.

  
It’s a staggering moment because Voldemort has seeped into the boy’s thoughts. He can feel the scar searing in agony. He can feel the fear and the horror and the loss. Oh, is Hedwig dead now? Has poor, foolish Hagrid fallen into the dark? Everyone beloved is dying in the distance. Their blood becomes rain and their corpses are lost- but it is over now. Voldemort has no point to prove, no reason to drag this out. He’ll close the curtain on a miserable, beaten life. He doesn’t want the boy to suffer. He wants the boy to stop existing.

  
Harry Potter clings to the bike, screaming, his eyes scrunched shut in agony. It’s effortless and easy. Voldemort turns his wand to the boy’s heart. He never needed this piece of himself; he’ll be better off without it.

  
He has uttered half of the curse when golden light shatters the darkness.

  
In a state of maddened disbelief, Voldemort recognizes the duel of wand cores- but at the same time, he knows it cannot be. He wields Lucius’s wand. There is no brother for Potter’s wand to duel. There is no conceivable reason for this to happen. Even more than that, Potter did not look at him to cast it. From the depths of his mind, Voldemort can sense that Potter didn’t see him, didn’t know where he was…and didn’t mean to cast a spell.

  
What is this?

  
Lucius’s wand burns up, the wood splintering in his hand. Voldemort shrieks in fury, in denial even at what he sees. Potter slams his hand down on the bike, sending it hurtling toward the ground in flames. He is screaming, shouting below but he is close even if he arrives in pieces. There is a warded area just ahead, its circumference smothered in short-term protective spells. This is Potter’s destination. In a matter of seconds, he will be beyond Voldemort’s reach.

  
“Your wand, Selwyn,” Voldemort cries, turning in the air, “give me your wand!”

  
Selwyn flinches, scrambling to offer the wand. Voldemort snatches it from him and shoots after Potter without another thought. He won’t use a direct curse then, if it comes down to it. He’ll coax daggers of ice out of the clouds and he’ll send them down on Potter in a storm. He joins the boy in his wild fall, already drawing his frozen razors close to Potter’s waiting flesh. Their eyes lock for one, heart-stopping moment.

  
Then he hits the ward.

  
Voldemort is forced to a halt, his movement slowed as though the air has become a thick, viscous liquid. A millisecond passes and he knows it is impossible to proceed. He cannot continue on, he cannot break these protective spells. They will last a scant few hours but until then, they are impenetrable. The Order prepared them thoroughly in advance.

  
He watches Potter fall in silence, then crash into a murky little pond.

  
Voldemort feels numb, the violent emotions of moments ago settling into a terrible serenity. He assesses the situation with cold logicality. There is nothing he can do but watch. It is as simple as that. Skirting the edge of the wards, he travels down to the road below. His robes flow about him as he regains his solid form. This area, like Harry Potter’s old home, is in the muggle world. The neighborhood is older and full of trees. The pond Potter landed in looks to be part of a witch’s garden- though it is difficult to tell from a distance. The protections form a vast dome around the house with a radius of a hundred yards.

  
A couple soon emerges from the house, calling out from their front porch. The wizard speaks first and Voldemort pays him no mind. Whoever they are, they have thrown their lot in with the Order; they will pay dearly. Then he hears the woman speak, that familiar ringing voice traveling across the night.

  
“They’ve crashed, Ted, crashed in the garden!”

  
Voldemort’s tension ebbs, dwindling horribly into something near calm. “Ah,” he murmurs to himself and his eyes pick out wildly curling hair, long skirts swirling as she runs. “Of course.”

  
Ted and Andromeda Tonks hasten to the pond, levitating Harry Potter’s body out of it. A moment later, Hagrid’s hulking form follows. The oaf made it after all, against all odds. They send the injured newcomers floating gently into the house. Ted goes straight in after them.

  
Andromeda pauses at the threshold.

  
Then she throws a glance back over her shoulder, sharp gray eyes cutting through the darkness. Her gaze consumes the distance and finds him where he stands on the road. It connects with his, magnetic in the force of its malice. Her lips part, as if in a mocking gasp of dismay.

  
“Oh no,” he imagines her crooning with hate, so vividly he can almost hear the words. “Did our prey slip through our grasp?”

  
Then her face lights up in a dazzling, incandescent smile. With that mad, silent laughter on her lips, she turns on her heel and slams the door behind her.

  
  
o0O0o

 

It would come as a great disappointment to Andromeda but Harry Potter’s destination is the least of Voldemort’s concerns. The middle Sister Black can shriek insults like a banshee. It doesn’t change the fact that Voldemort _had_ Harry Potter and the very laws of magic twisted to thwart him. He knows everything there is to know about brother wands. Not only has he read every possible book on the subject, he has kidnapped and tortured an expert for more information.

  
What happened simply wasn’t a possible factor. He made provisions for what was possible. He was synched into Harry Potter’s thoughts. The duel of cores does not occur without intent. How can it? There was never even a duel. Potter was hanging on for his life in those moments, cringing in pain. He didn’t mean to cast a spell. He did not decide to do anything. Voldemort strains his memory, recounting the moment over and over. It could not have been a reflex either. Potter never got enough of a sense of where his enemy was.

  
Voldemort knows this with certainty. He experienced the event from both his and Potter’s perspective. In the immediate aftermath, Potter was just as baffled as Voldemort was.

  
“He did not have a two percent chance,” Voldemort says, appearing like smoke at Malfoy Manor. His voice is ice, cutting the night. He stalks forward, feeling colder and more furious with every step. “He had no chance at all.”

  
Some of the Death Eaters have returned already. They lurk in the Manor’s foyer, gathered gleefully around Moody’s corpse. They have charmed it to float sluggishly through the air, slowly revolving. He doesn’t spare them a thought, too incensed to find fault or amusement in their actions. He strides swiftly into the room, making for the cellar. They turn to him with smiles and bright eyes. One glimpse at his face however makes them recoil in fear.

  
Voldemort takes the stairs down two at a time. His magic rips and tears at the locks, flinging the cellar door open. There are several prisoners in this dark, dank room. Some, mainly those who have encountered Bellatrix, are barely alive. Voldemort pays them no mind, even as they moan and stir. He goes directly to Ollivander.

  
The aging wizard is slumped on the floor against the wall, shackles on his thin wrists. He blinks blearily up as Voldemort approaches, fear coming quick into his strange, silver eyes.

  
_“You told me the problem would be solved by using another’s wand!”_ Voldemort screams, his ire crystallizing within the words. He casts his curse without a wand, drawing upon neither his own phoenix feather nor Selwyn’s as a focus. He casts without a word, pouring the full flood of his frustration, incredulity and rage into the magic. Ollivander falls, back arching violently off of the floor. He writhes in agony, clawing at his arms, slamming his head back against the stone.

  
When the curse ebbs, he sucks in air like a wheezing fish. “No, no, I beg you,” he pleads in a hoarse, threadbare voice. “I beg you…”

  
“You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander,” Voldemort breathes, bending at the waist to peer down at the wand maker.

  
“I did not,” Ollivander gasps, “I swear I did not.”

  
“You sought to help Potter,” Voldemort persists, eyes boring into the old man’s face, magic sifting through the old man’s thoughts. Surely if he looks for it, he will find his answer- the explanation to how he was sabotaged. “You helped him escape me.”

  
Ollivander only chokes out more denials, weeping, and Voldemort cannot find any contradiction in the wand maker’s mind. He searches and he presses the wretch but there is nothing.

  
He glances down at his hands then, realizing distantly that they are shaking. He swiftly loses the patience necessary for speech. He wants to rend Ollivander limb from limb. He wants to butcher everyone in this room and everyone above it. How many weeks, months even, did he spend planning this attack? How very perfectly did he execute it? The Order was clever but not clever enough. Perhaps, had they truly found some way to outwit him, he could accept this failure. He could evaluate and learn from his mistake. That is what he did when Lily Potter destroyed him- he found the source of his error and took steps to make sure it did not happen again.

  
This is the logical process that Voldemort follows. It is the very foundation of his life. It has brought him from a gutter, starving and unwanted, to this place of unquestioned power. Harry Potter, however, is immune to logic. Life does not seem to care about odds, about strategy. When Voldemort gently slips a garrote around Potter’s neck, fate itself intervenes to snap the wire. It is beyond rationality. It is beyond sense and if no sense can be made of it, Voldemort is helpless.

He doesn’t know what to do. This blank, gaping uncertainty undoes him more than anything.

  
He curses Ollivander again, his wrath becoming a white hot inferno. He can barely see, he is so angry. At his feet, Ollivander thrashes under the Cruciatus Curse- but his body also begins to smoke and burn.

  
Voldemort exhales a short breath and reins himself in. He trembles still from the force of this emotion. He is dizzy and out of control. Anger is not power. He knows this. He has used the anger of his enemies against them many times, harrying them until they lose their sense. It would not serve him to kill Ollivander. The wand maker may yet possess valuable information. Voldemort must simply think of the right questions. He must come at this problem with composure. Nothing happens without a reason, nothing. Regardless of how things may appear, there is surely a _reason_ the boy escaped.

  
Voldemort must find it. He must push through his rage and attain a fresh perspective. When his mind is clear, perhaps he will find inspiration. There is little chance of that tonight, of course. He looks down at his sharp, white hands. They seize of their own accord, curling into claws.

  
Problem solving is a process. Relevant factors must be evaluated with logic. An objective assessment requires lucidity. Voldemort’s first enemy is his own fury.

  
He needs a distraction- something interesting, something compelling enough to draw him out of this. He nods vaguely to himself, turning away from Ollivander’s collapsed form. He steps out of the cellar and back up into the Manor proper. His Death Eaters should have returned by now but the foyer is deserted. He understands; word of his temperament traveled among them and they wisely made themselves scarce. A mental sweep of the house reveals only the Malfoys and Lestranges present. They are closeted together in an out-of-the-way reading room. Lucius sits silent and wandless in a gray state of dread. Draco trembles in place, the battle cutting at his memories, and Narcissa comforts him. Bella and Bastan are fussing quietly over Rod who was injured in the fight. They, unlike the other Death Eaters, have no excuse to quit the Manor. Nonetheless, they are laying low.

  
Voldemort could summon his followers back in a heartbeat, if he wished. He could grill them for results of the fight, assess the damage taken and punish those who did poorly. He doesn’t have the patience, however, not even to torment them. It would be tedious and unrewarding. Moreover, wasn’t the greatest of failures his? He grinds his teeth, eyes flashing in the dark, and goes upstairs to his room.

  
He stares restlessly about the shadowy space for a moment, hands clenching into fists. Nagini is stirring on the armchair, his vexation rousing her. He lights a fire in the hearth with a thought. The flames spring to life, casting shadows starkly across the room. He needs an indulgence, a luxury, a toy. His painstaking calculations of these past few weeks are irrelevant now. He must be able to think.

  
He summons Bellatrix. Across the house, her Mark burns her.

  
Voldemort doesn’t bother to track her progress through Draco’s eyes, for all that the boy’s mind is open to him. Instead, he stands beside the armchair and stares into the flames. After a moment, he hears the pop of her apparating into the hallway outside his door. A quiet knock soon follows.

  
“Come,” he says.

  
Bellatrix slips warily into the room, curtsying deeply once the door is shut behind her. She has heard of his mood, heard Ollivander’s screaming. She knows Potter must have escaped. She does nothing reckless and keeps her eyes fixed on the floor. She waits in silence with her hands clasped behind her back. She doesn’t wish to bring his fury crashing down on her. She takes such care not to provoke him- but he can’t have that, can he?

  
Otherwise, there is scarcely any point.

  
“Bella,” he greets her. His voice is quiet but unerringly smooth. He even manages a note of honeyed pleasantness. His fingers grip the armchair’s back so hard that his knuckles turn white. “It seems our friends have scattered. Do you know what became of the Order?”

  
“The Order had warded safe houses prepared for each pair, my lord,” Bellatrix answers after a careful moment’s thought. She speaks in a hushed tone of voice, as if softness can preserve his calm. “Of the others I spoke with, most said these locations were homes belonging to family members of the Order. It seems their plan was to shake us off with the wards and then travel via portkey to an unknown location. Since capturing Harry Potter was the objective, we were not as aggressive with the killing curses. Most of them escaped with minor injuries. I don’t believe anyone saw the real Potter besides Selwyn…”

  
“Ah, I see,” Voldemort murmurs, still very gently. “And how did _your_ little hunt play out? Did you kill Nymphadora?”

  
Bella doesn’t answer at once. He turns and moves closer to her. Her eyes, still fixed on the floor, widen a fraction. “No, my lord,” she hastens to tell him then, apparently finding her voice. “Not this time. Please, forgive me. With her fleeing and not committed to the fight, with the added difficulty of trying not to hit her companion-"

  
“Oh, that’s alright, dearest,” he assures her tenderly, reaching out to cradle her face in his hands. He touches her with his fingertips only, his thumb pressing just beneath her lower lip. “I’m certain you tried your very best. I too failed tonight and for terribly mysterious reasons. Perhaps higher powers have deigned to intervene on our enemies’ behalves.”

  
Her dark eyes scan his face, searching warily for signs of danger. “I…” she falters, “Yes. No matter how well we prepare, they will still have lucky days now and then. We’ll get them- next time.”

  
“Nymphadora though, I think, just has a lucky star,” Voldemort adds idly, turning away from Bella and back to the fire. “She was all but safe tonight, escorted by her clever and devoted aunt.”

  
Bella sucks in a quick breath, sensing the peril ahead. As soon as he hears it, hears her fear and the cogs of her mind begin to turn in search of escape, he knows this is what he wants. He can stabilize himself by indulging this cruelty. He can find peace if he feasts upon her pain. She possesses a wealth of emotion, always with a surplus of passion, and he will allow it to draw him in. Her soft, little gasp is sweeter than music.

  
“Speaking of, Bella,” he murmurs before she can conjure up a new defense. “I saw your sister tonight.”

  
This news startles her badly, if her reaction is any guess. Whatever excuses she intended to utter die on her lips. “No,” she breathes, clutching at her arms in horror. Her face goes deathly white. “Andy- she doesn’t fight, she can’t- can’t have been with them!”

  
“Hers was the house to which Potter flew,” Voldemort explains, relishing the words and the impact they have on her. “I watched her bring his unconscious body inside.”

  
“She-” Bella shakes her head, eyes filling with tears. She stares at him speechlessly for a moment, as if hoping he’ll tell her he’s joking. He holds her gaze.

  
“How could she?” Bella gasps then, dizzied, placing a hand to her heart. She begins to have trouble breathing. “She stayed out of the war the first time! Why would she suddenly…why would she do something so terrible? I gave her the inheritance she might have received. I told her I forgave her. She has no reason to spite me- _why?_ ”

  
“Oh no, there now,” he soothes with false sympathy, going and taking her in his arms. She’s reeling, all her strategies to placate him gone. She sags into his embrace, tears spilling from her dark eyes. Her distress is captivating. Her lower lip trembles and he finds himself wanting to bite it.

  
“She’s mad, she’s gone-” Bella makes a broken, distraught sound, “completely mad! Once the Ministry falls, I’ll go and…take her to St. Mungos. She cannot be left in such a state. Perhaps the healers can treat her. Master, I’m so sorry.”

  
Voldemort rocks her in his arms, his grasp subtly tightening. “I hope that you’re right,” he says quietly. “If she acted out of malice instead of madness, it would be unforgivable. After all, you sacrificed so much when she first ran away. You suffered terribly to purchase her safety.” He presses his mouth into her hair. “Do you remember?”

  
She stiffens in his embrace, going from pliant to rigid. A dangerous thrill runs through him; his arms tighten around her. He listens to her breathing, each rasp scraping at the silence, each swell of her chest pushing against him. Apparently, she remembers very well.

  
“There is a point, I should think,” he supposes, “when you should stop protecting those who renounce you. Wouldn’t you say it’s time to let Andromeda face her own consequences?”

  
“But she’s insane,” Bella pleads in a whisper. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. I shouldn’t have let her go with the mudblood the first time! I should have forced her to see a healer, to have potions prescribed! What was I thinking? Master,” she seizes a fistful of his sleeve, “master, I’ll make sure she doesn’t do this again!”

  
“Joining the Order of the Phoenix,” Voldemort intones without pity, “is a worse crime by far than marrying a muggleborn.”

  
A sob tears out of Bella’s throat. She isn’t hyperventilating yet. Still, the storm builds. Her breaths come sharp and unsteady. Her dilated eyes dart around the room. “We made plans,” she tells him then quickly, “for the Ministry’s fall. The brothers and I, that is. The attack is all laid out, the approach, the strategies. Would you like to have a look?”

  
“Let’s take issues as they come, Bella,” he says, cruelly thwarting her attempt to redirect him. He catches her wrist and pulls the shuddering witch through the room. “Oh, I know this is difficult for you,” he adds considerately. “Andromeda poses a painful and unfair dilemma. Nonetheless, we must face it.” He guides her toward the bed. “Here, lie down, darling girl…”

  
Bella loses her nerve and resists, pulling back against his grip. The thrill that runs through him is headier this time. He turns back to her sharply with the intent to frighten her. It works.

  
“Mercy, please,” she cries, shrinking away as far as his grasp will allow. She is weeping now, “I know I shouldn’t have left this be! I know that now! I’ll take care of her next week. Next week, master, please!”

  
“Gracious, what’s wrong?” he asks, his gentle and collected tone at odds with her terror. He seizes the resisting witch by the shoulders and pulls her close. He cards his fingers through her hair, dispelling tangles the wind left. “You’re working yourself into a state. I am not angry with _you_. You are not to be held accountable for the actions of your entire family. Andromeda must face the consequences. The only thing you must do is let her go. Surely, you don’t intend to shield her _again?_ ”

  
But of course she does. He doesn’t have the slightest doubt. The very first time he encountered Bella, he saw a girl who would go to the ends of the earth for her sisters, for her family, for anyone she loved. No Death Eaters or their sympathizers attacked Andromeda upon her marriage because Voldemort prevented it. Voldemort prevented it because he gave Bella a choice- to kill Andromeda herself or to take Andromeda’s punishment. She chose the latter. He tortured Bella for three days. It took her a month to recover and years to restore her family’s reputation. She faced the agony, the hardship and the shame with gritted teeth and her head held high. When her honor was reclaimed, she went to Andromeda with words of forgiveness and love.

  
Bella will never forsake her sister- just as Bella will never kill Nymphadora Tonks. Getting her to obey him isn’t the point. He doesn’t care what happens to her sister, her niece. He gives orders like this because it suits his purposes- or sometimes because it’s amusing.

  
Bella is shaking her head, digging in her heels as he herds her toward the bed. “Andy can’t be held accountable either,” she pleads, voice high and quick. “She’s insane, my lord. Please, have her tested, you’ll see!”

  
“Lie down,” he bids her, merciless behind a tender façade. “It will help.”

  
Bella lets herself be backed onto the bed, her wide eyes fixed on him as she lowers herself down. He seats himself beside her, caressing her face, stroking her lower lip with his thumb.

  
“Shh, now,” he says with a grip on her jaw, pushing her back against the coverlet. “Focus on your breathing.” Her chest heaves, swelling and receding beneath plain black robes. He leans close when he continues. “So you wish me to stay my hand once more? Is that what you’re telling me? You know what your sister stole from me this night.”

  
“Forgive, my lord,” she entreats, struggling to form the words around short, staccato breaths. “I’ll find Potter again myself-! I’ll make sure Andy is- locked away!”

  
He examines her at his leisure. “The time for daring feats is over. This is a matter of punishment."

  
“Then I,” Bella gasps out, “I will take it.”

  
“No,” he croons ever so gently, “you will not. You must think of our baby. In this situation…well, I suppose you might impose upon Rod. He could take on the burden for your sake. Still, the level of damage I will have to inflict on him…”

  
She begins shaking her head frantically- difficult, as he still holds her jaw- and loses control of her breathing completely. He bends over her, watching from inches away and holding her tight.

  
“No?” he demands and she cries. “What am I to do then? Lower my head when your sister takes Potter himself from me? _Someone_ must pay, Bella. Choose!"

  
She hyperventilates then, driven into a panic. With relish, he worsens her state. He seizes a fistful of her hair. He corners her and presses her down. She loses her head and shoves at him, scratching at his arms. He catches her thin wrists and clutches them together in one hand. She sucks in gulp after gulp of air, unable to slow herself. Her wide, black eyes stay locked with his. Without a Calming Draught to soothe her, the surplus of oxygen takes its toll. She gasps and sobs in his grasp, struggles becoming more and more feeble. Her eyes lose their focus until she doesn’t seem to see him at all. Then, inevitably, she passes out.

  
He stares at her unconscious form for a moment, rather breathless himself. Was she always so lovely? Why didn’t he summon her to him in those early days, back when Dumbledore was his frustration and hatred plagued his thoughts? This is exhilarating and delicious. It is the saving distraction he so desperately craved. Carefully, he brushes curls of black hair away from her face. He kisses her eyelids. He licks the tears from her cheek.

  
Then he puts the tip of his finger to her throat and whispers, “ _rennervate_.”

  
Bella jumps, her eyes blinking dazedly open. She looks drugged. Her attack will have left her light-headed and disoriented. The fainting spell has, if nothing else, slowed her breathing back to normal. She looks up at him, shivering in silence. The subdued terror of her eyes is so open. He feels like he could steal right into her soul, no matter how her mind stays locked.

  
“Bella,” he coaxes her and kisses her cheek. Her eyes blink slowly shut and open again. “Bella, you blacked out. Sweetheart, are you alright? Try to calm yourself.”

  
She closes her eyes, tears spilling from the corners, and turns her face away. He takes her jaw in hand, forcing her to look at him.

  
“I’m sorry for what she did,” Bella chokes out finally, her expression crumbling. “Please forgive her! I beg you, my lord. For my sake, won’t you…?”

  
“Such favors you ask for,” he chides. He bends his head, sipping at her tears once more. She shudders violently beneath him. “It would be easier to bring you lost treasures and ancient magic. Stay my hand when I am robbed of my triumph, when society itself is betrayed? I’d kill anyone but you for even making the request…”

  
She apologizes again, a steady flow of “I’m sorry” spilling from her lips. He regards her, tantalized and charmed. This is what he wants.

  
It never mattered who was at that door, bringing Potter inside. Once Potter hit the wards, it was done. Voldemort should thank Andromeda, really.

  
“You want me to forgive this?” he baits his wrecked and helpless lover.

  
Her eyes flit quickly over his face, looking to see if there’s a chance, if he might really grant her mercy. “Yes, my lord, I beg you,” she persists, leaning earnestly toward him.

  
He puts his lips to her ear, still with the taste of her tears on his tongue. “Then ask me nicely.”

  
He withdraws, meeting her gaze again. Bewilderment muddies her stare. She has been _begging_. She has employed every formality. She catches on, though, when his eyes fall to her lips. He hears the hitch of her breathing. His implication is clear but he has also told her not to touch him. She is in no position to take a risk. She hesitates, considering the idea he might forgive her in return for a kiss…

  
He doesn’t blame her for being wary. He wouldn’t believe it either.

  
She looks helplessly to his eyes for an answer, down at his mouth and then back to his eyes once more. Her own gaze has turned a bit glassy, her attack and her anxiety taking its toll. Then she leans up on her elbows, scarcely breathing, and drags her lips softly over his.

  
He seizes her by the throat, slams her back down to the bed and thrusts his tongue into her mouth.

  
The violence of it startles a cry from her, muffled by his hungry mouth. He can feel a flutter in her throat, her pulse darting like a butterfly in his grasp. Her breathing picks up but she is boneless beneath him. Her lips part easily. She meets the forceful push of his tongue with yielding sweetness. Her hands lie unmoving at her sides. This is not the night she’ll dare to test him.

  
He bites her lower lip, as he has desired to, so hard he draws blood. She makes another small, smothered sound. It’s nothing to her. It couldn’t possibly be; Bella’s threshold for pain is indomitably high. Nonetheless, it makes such a fine addition to her fear. He kisses her abused mouth softly, tasting iron. She watches him through the veil of her lashes, breathing hard as she tries to discern his intent. Can she really tempt him? He can see her wondering it. Does this intimacy between them really give her such power?

  
She can. It does. At least, it does when she is shivering and vulnerable on his bed with blood staining her lip. He kisses the wound again. She presses up into his touch.

  
He withdraws enough to deal with her clothes- battle robes layered thick with protective enchantments. She never used to bother with these intricate shielding charms. Now that she has Meissa to think about, she is less reckless. He coaxes them from her body with a spell. He vanishes the practical smallclothes beneath.

  
“Up you get,” he tells her, pulling her further onto the bed by her upper arm. She shakily complies, shifting on hands and knees.

  
“Master,” she breathes out as he presses her down onto the pillows, “I live to please you! Anything I do against your wishes is an accident. Please think kindly of me, please-”

  
She wants assurance now- that he won’t have Andromeda killed, that he won’t torture Rod in Bella’s place. Her pleading eyes are so compelling that he nearly concedes to comfort her. Instead, he nuzzles at her throat and bites the juncture between neck and shoulder. She startles in his grasp, her head tossing against the pillow and her fingers twisting in the sheets. Her chest heaves, seeking breath.

  
“Quiet down,” he murmurs and bites her again. He absently pinches her breast, feeling her lungs swell beneath his hand. “Do you want to give yourself another attack?”

  
She stares up at the ceiling, shifting beneath his caresses, flinching at his rougher attentions. She’s having trouble again, her inhalations coming sudden and wild. He runs his hands gently over her swollen stomach and down to grasp her hips. He takes her legs by the knees, spreading them, pulling her close.

  
“I need a potion,” she says and her voice is so threadbare, it sounds like the night time wind. Her hand is stretching out, trembling fingers over white sheets. There’s a summoning charm coming together about her long, claw-like nails.

  
He seizes her hand and pins it back to the pillow beside her head. “You’ll calm yourself,” he corrects her and finally, with a shudder, settles his body flush against hers. “Or you’ll pass out again. You think it matters? Hush.”

  
He spells away his robes, covering her body with his. He kisses her mouth, stealing the air she fights for. Why not? His need is greater. Without her softness and heat, he’ll be torn apart- rent asunder by uncertainty, helplessness and rage. He bruises her flesh only because he holds onto her so tightly. He bites her because her gasps are a balm to his broken soul. The more she entices him, the stronger he feels this desperation. The world is ice and darkness- but here she is, his warmth, his light, his cruel and vivacious star. She’s not a distraction; she’s an anchor.

  
He abandons her mouth, aligning himself and pushing into her. At once, he is engulfed in heat and constricting wetness. She bucks in his grasp, a cry on her lips. Her back arches, lungs still straining for air. Voldemort seizes her, pulling her hard by the hips back onto him as he thrusts, dragging her thighs closer around his waist. The sound of flesh smacking against flesh joins the frantic rasp of her breathing. She turns her face into the pillow. He catches her jaw, making her look at him. He kisses her harshly, possessed. When her breath grows too thin, she fights his grasp. The feel of her struggling beneath him is so decadent, he shouts.

  
It’s a struggle from there, just a struggle. He holds her by the hair. He holds her by the face. He holds her by the throat. She fights to breathe even as her body squeezes him, convulsing in pleasure that puts a flush on her skin. She claws at the arms restraining her, scoring bright red scratches down his colorless skin. It only sweetens the building tension, the heady delight he finds at her core. He drives into her harder and her breaths become faint, broken-off sobs. No matter how his fingers wrap over her face, he never covers her eyes. He looks fiercely into them, watching them lose their focus. It’s hard to say whether the glassiness is caused by oxygen or the familiar constricting, cresting spasms of her pleasure.

  
When her eyelids fall shut, he finds his release. It sears through him, overpowering, burning away the doubts and fears beneath his wrath. The sensation rides him and he is a mere conduit, thrusting once, twice more into Bella’s unconscious body. Then he slumps down beside her, shuddering and spent. His terrible mood of before is replaced by languid satiation. He stares vaguely at the ceiling, his head beside hers on the pillow. He’s lying on top of her hair, his cheek pressed against her sweaty forehead.

  
He lifts one hand, reaching blindly over to touch her throat. Her pulse is strong and her breathing has steadied into a normal pace. It’s always good to check after nights like this. He didn’t strangle her. He didn’t do anything so violent that it might have endangered the child. Still, he is nothing like his father- he’s not callous or negligent or weak. It doesn’t cost him anything to check and make sure Bella is alright.

  
It costs him nothing to spell her clean and wrap her in blankets either. He dresses in the shadows and stokes the fire with a thought. He mind is working once more, ideas uncurling from their previous tangles. He has tackled mysteries before with patient investigation. In the matter of Potter as well, he will find the truth. He sinks down into his armchair. Nagini curls on the rug at his feet. Staring into the flames, he contemplates his problem. He makes lists in his head of relevant observations, possibilities, points of interest.

  
He plans his next little chat with Ollivander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone managed to have a nice Halloween and avoid obliteration from rebounding curses. Prophesized arch nemeses must be disposed of carefully. 
> 
> I wanted to get this up last night but it just didn't happen. I had to reread a lot of DH to get all the details straight. As always, please let me know if you see an error in canon compliance. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! ^^


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